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A SOCIAL LION 


BY 


ROBERT DOLLY WILLIAMS 




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CHICAGO : R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS CO. 
MDCCCXCIX 


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COPYRIGHT 1899 BY 
ROBERT DOLLY WILLIAMS 




IV£0, 






TO 

A MEMORY 
FOR A 
PROMISE 

















































































































































































. 










































CHAPTER I 


THE DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 

The low rapid tones of a woman’s voice, a quick 
rejoinder, and then a light ring of laughter came from 
behind the closed door of the dressing-room. The 
group around it outside closed up their ranks and 
watched expectantly. Presently a man who stood 
with his back to the door, and whose head had hitherto 
drooped forward, straightened up before them and 
spoke : 

“Now, fellows, move on there! She’s coming out 
directly, and doesn’t want you blocking up the pas- 
sage. She says so.’’ 

“Humph! Bobby’s her latest,” sneered one of the 
party, in high collar, top hat, and with the inevitable 
cigarette between his lips. “He can order at our 
expense for to-night. Never mind. She’ll choose 
again in a week; and then, ta-ta, Courtenay!” 

With this, and a patronizing flap of his fair hand 
the man went off toward the dirty stairs, followed by 
the rest of the characterless forms. Robert Cour- 
tenay alone remained at the door of the dancer’s 
dressing-room. His tall, slender figure, handsome 
face, with its gray eyes, egotistical mouth, and the 
closely-cut, curly, black hair, were in prominent con- 
trast to the vapid features of the club-men who had 


i 


A SOCIAL LION 


just disappeared toward the wings. And still, Rob- 
ert Courtenay was one of them, heart and soul. His 
aristocratic family had left him this, together with an 
inadequate fortune, as his heritage. Only at times 
was he more dare-devil, more totally reckless than it 
was possible for them to be. They knew him well, 
liked him well, were secretly consumed with envious 
awe of him. He knew them, liked their admiration, 
despised them, and mocked at himself for knowing 
them and their ways. 

This periodic pursuit of some woman was one of 
their ways, and one to which Courtenay took with 
peculiar ease. He was more than ordinarily popular 
with the unreasoning sex, and had never yet discov- 
ered one of them unwilling to yield all her time to 
him and his graceless caprices. The ease of his con- 
quests made him fickle, and little Garth had been 
wrong when he dared the remark that it was La Cara- 
lita who would choose again. Not so. She might 
hold herself lucky, he knew, if she could keep Robert 
the redoubtable, at her side for another ten days. 
Courtenay, too, knew this, and smiled as he mused at 
her door. Presently the dancer came out. The five- 
minute bell had sounded. 

Helen Howard was, for her class, a remarkable- 
looking woman. She did not appear old, but she was 
not young. Wrinkles had not come, but in her great 
dark eyes shone the strange, baffling light that grows 
more brilliant with each blow of Fate. She was not 
a small person; her eyes were brown, her hair, under 
the yellow wig, of a deep red, her teeth were small, 
her nose short and straight, her mouth sensitive, 


2 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA C ARALITA 

and her forehead white. Over her black tights 
and rose-colored gauze she wore a long gray cloak, 
which she drew more closely about her as she hurried 
up the stairway toward the stage. Her appearance 
was made from a large canvas rose, which stood nod- 
ding quite naturally in the center of the stage at a 
height of some fifteen feet. She herself was cramped 
into the hollow of the flower during a preliminary bal- 
let, and it required no little art to spring forth at the 
right instant and flutter gracefully to the stage upon 
her rose-leaf wings, supported by a steel wire fastened 
to the back of her flexible bodice. 

La Caralita was an artist. There was no farther- 
famed dancer on the stage at that day than she. 
She had earned her reputation and her two thousand 
a week by years of hard, hard work, at a cost 
which only she alone could understand. Time had 
steadily intensified the bitterness of her sacrifice until 
her memory became a bondman which never left her, 
even now, as she smiled an au revoir upon Robert 
Courtenay, and climbed carefully up into her flower- 
box. 

The orchestra dropped from the last chords of the 
overture into the first notes of a quick, swaying 
dance. The curtain rolled back, and a little applaudic 
murmur from the people, expectant of their dancer, 
died away. A rosy light flooded the empty stage. 
Then from the wings came the ballet, brushing 
by the little crowd of dress-suited creatures whom 
the manager had not the pocket to command to the 
front. Now, the flower girls circled, broke into 
stars, formed again in squares, advanced, retreated, 

3 


A SOCIAL LION 


and finally paused in a serpentine wave about the 
great pink rose which was slowly unfolding its huge 
petals. Here was La Caralita’s cue. The flower stood 
open, the dancer’s head appeared. There came a 
succession of rapid jerks. The wooden stem qua- 
vered and creaked. There was a woman’s scream. A 
wire fell from the flies; then came a heavy crash, 
and in the center of the stage lay a heap of debris, 
soiled canvas, splinters of wood, bits of netting, and 
in the midst of all a palpitating mass of shredded 
gauze, rent silk and streaming hair that covered a 
woman. 

Just how it happened no one knew. By now the 
curtain was down, the music stopped, the stage-man- 
ager before the audience, and the queen of her art 
lying supine on the stage, unconscious and groaning, 
after a fall that might well have killed her. 

A throng of men and women from below, half 
dressed, half wigged, daubed with paint, were pour- 
ing up the narrow stairs, crying out to know what 
had happened. The ballet-girls for the most part 
wept hysterically. One or two, however, more sen- 
sible than the rest, knelt beside the still senseless 
woman and took her hands, while some men fanned 
her vaguely with their hats and shouted for brandy. 
At length, to the relief of all, Dobbs, the manager, 
appeared, anxiety and steadiness in his face, biting 
words on his tongue, and authority in his very walk. 
Under his direction matters progressed. 

Four scene-shifters lifting La Caralita gingerly, car- 
ried her downstairs and placed her on an extempo- 
rized bed on the floor of her stuffy little room. Here 


4 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


Fifine, her maid, weeping excitedly, took her in charge, 
bathing the rouge from the flushed cheeks, wiping the 
black from the quivering lashes, plucking off the con- 
fining wig, and straightening the rags of tulle that 
hung in masses about her. 

A moment later the dancer, brought shudderingly 
back to life through copious administrations of liquor, 
languidly opened her eyes and looked up at her 
attendant. A wrench of pain forced another groan 
through the pallid lips, and the poor creature cow- 
ered back among her pillows, crying dizzily. 

There was a murmured chorus of voices near at 
hand, and through the half-open door could be seen 
the same group of men that had waited for the 
appearance of their latest fancy before the curtain 
had risen. Their phrases were rapid now. Some of 
them had even lost a part of their resemblance to the 
lay-figures in tailors’ windows. But the odor of 
Turkish tobacco was still strong in the passage. 
La Caralita, in the dressing-room, closed her eyes 
and turned her head away. That scene was so wearily 
familiar, and this land of pain so strangely new. 

“Send them away, Fifine,’’ she said, hoarsely. 

Before the maid had risen from her knees, however, 
a man entered the room and slammed the door tight 
shut in the faces of his companions. It was Cour- 
tenay again. He stood in the center of the little 
place with his hands in his pockets, looking at her 
with a bored expression. 

“Another advertisement, eh?’’ 

There was a slight pause, for the woman did not 
instantly grasp his meaning. When it came to her 

5 


A SOCIAL LION 


at length, she gave a painful exclamation of anger, a 
moment later breaking into a bitterly tragic laugh. 

“I’m keeping the delusion up well, you think?” 

The cynical gray eyes under the black lashes 
changed a little as he went nearer to her. 

“Where are you hurt, then,” he asked, more 
gently. 

She looked at him without answering. The cut of 
his first words had gone deep. But he could find a 
reply if he chose in the agony of her dim eyes. No 
acting could force such an expression into them, and 
no words’could equal the power of their silence. All 
her soul was in them, and for the first time in his life 
Courtenay recognized a little part of the utter help- 
lessness of a woman of her profession when her day 
is over. He threw back his head and shook it; a 
trick of his when he was not pleased with himself. 

“Dobbs has sent for a doctor, Helen. He ought 
to be here by now. Just lie still, and don’t fret till 
he comes. It mayn’t be so Tad. Knocked you up 
awfully, though, hasn’t it — dear? I say, Fifine — a — 
haven’t you a neglig£ of some sort here for — for 
Helen? Get those rags off, if you can. They’re 
frightful.” 

The girl came up immediately with a long loose 
gown of silk and lace. Courtenay, bending over the 
injured woman, took her hand and kissed it, looking 
at her with a queer tenderness in his face. 

“Good night,” he said. “I’ll see that you’re 
looked^after. ” 

Helen smiled, and her smile was rarely sweet. 
“Good night, Bob,” she said, softly, through her 

6 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


pain. “Don’t think of me. You’d be better off 
without a thought of such a one as I.” 

“Don’t turn moralist, Helen,’’ he returned sharply, 
drawing his brows together. 

The dancer closed her eyes and slightly shook her 
head. So, without another word between them, he 
had shrugged his shoulders and was gone. 

Now for the space of five minutes Helen Howard 
was left alone with the maid. Fifine stood beside the 
dancer, and eyed her closely for a second, but the 
dark eyes were closed, and the spasmodic breathing 
came more easily. “She is asleep,” thought Fifine, 
who forthwith seated herself at the chaotic dressing- 
table and applied one or two of the instruments 
thereon to her own face. This was an amusement of 
which a woman does not readily tire, and the mirror 
was still returning the contemplative gaze of two non- 
descript eyes when there came a succession of rapid 
taps on the door. Fifine knew the author of those 
taps, and lost not an instant in throwing open the 
door. She had a wholesome respect for the manager, 
who stood without, with another man, and was 
slightly relieved to behold Dobbs walk away again 
rapidly toward the scene of his unlucky performance. 
The other entered immediately, with the explanatory 
remark, “I’m the doctor.” 

The small man closed the door carefully, and 
trotted at once to his patient’s side. Doctor James 
Bartwick Kent was the best known physician about 
town. This was due to his wife, who was an impos- 
ing figure, indeed, in Chicago society. In respect 
to this estimable lady, then, we will refrain from 

7 


A SOCIAL LION 


explaining just how her husband was able so quickly 
to reach the remote locality of a second-rate 
theater. 

Dr. Kent was a short, stout, cheery little fellow, 
with white mutton-chops, and gold-rimmed spectacles, 
which found a difficult resting place upon his jolly 
little nose. Pince-nez were absolutely out of the 
question. He was in evening dress, and his tiny 
feet twinkled merrily in patent leather pumps. He 
had stood looking down at his prospective patient 
thoughtfully for a moment, when Helen opened her 
eyes and looked at him with recognition. 

“Jim? Oh, I’m glad you’ve come!’’ 

The doctor carefully felt her pulse. He shook his 
head over it. “Now, a short examination, Helen. 
I’ll be as careful as possible.” 

There was a series of rapid little taps, nods, and 
fingerings over his patient, while Helen turned her 
head from the doctor and set her teeth. Then the 
little man stepped back, and looked thoughtfully at 
her, putting his ten fingers together. 

“Aha! I see. Not so bad after all. Some slight 
injury. For six months you must be careful, but 
after that you’ll be as light as before on those 
toes of yours. ” 

“Six months! It’s impossible!” 

“Pardon me. It’s not only possible, but abso- 
lutely necessary. If you were to be operated upon it 
would be quite different. But an operation is not to 
be had in your case. At least until I can make a 
thorough examination, I should be willing to swear 
that it is simply a sufficiently serious internal con- 

8 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


tusion. Six months, my dear girl. Six months, or I 
refuse the case as hopeless.” 

“Hopeless — hopeless,” repeated Helen Howard, 
in a dreamily expressionless tone. “Why not better 
so? You know my reasons, surely. You cannot 
imagine that I have laid anything by. Why not bet- 
ter death than an almshouse?” 

“If that were the choice, well and good. But it 
isn’t death that lies before you. It is life-long 
invalidism, Helen.” 

“Oh! great God ! what is left me, then? My day is 
past. I’ve nothing left to sell. What men give 
away flowers and diamonds? Another takes my place 
before the public. I am a memory — to them. Are 
you unworldly enough to think that people cherish 
such memories? Don’t scowl, Jim. Tell me, would 
the plate be heavy when returned to me from my 
congregation?” 

The doctor was silent for a moment before her. 
Then he spoke hesitatingly. “I admit that these old 
admirers would not be likely to stand by you at this 
time. It would hardly be human nature, you know. 
You give nothing — they give nothing. Like every- 
thing else, it is a case of traffic more or less. But I 
was not thinking altogether of these men. You can- 
not have forgotten — can you? — a certain gentleman 
whose gift of a plain gold ring I see has been removed 
from its finger? I can remember him, and the old 
days well, even yet. Can you place no reliance, 
Helen, on your husband — Her — ” 

“Fifine! Fifine! Go and tell some. Qrte to call a car- 


9 


A SOCIAL LION 


riage. We must have one to go home in. I shan’t 
want you for a few minutes, you know.” 

As this shrill interruption broke upon the doctor’s 
words, he turned toward the woman who lay twisting 
with the pain which the sudden movement had 
caused. 

“I beg pardon,” he said, earnestly; ‘‘I really for- 
got the girl.” 

‘‘But how near you came to pronouncing his name! 
Why, Jim, even in my sleep I think I keep watch over 
myself for fear I should speak it. You and he and 
the priest were the only ones that knew it. Through 
all these years I have kept his secret as a holy trust, 
and now I find you referring to it as if it were some- 
thing to be talked of every day! Have you ever 
breathed it to any one else? Don’t you realize how 
much is at stake — for him?” 

‘‘Yes, Helen; I do and have realized what a 
responsibility rested with me in sharing that secret. 
No one has ever learned it from me. But now, here, 
my sympathies are with you. Your sacrifice was a 
noble one, but — ” 

‘‘My sacrifice? It was no sacrifice. At that time 
he was as penniless as I. I had my choice, and I 
chose my liberty. That is all. It is different now, 
but that can never make any change for me. I — I do 
not ask it. ” 

The conversation was closed. Kent could say 
nothing more. But he felt so strongly on the subject 
that he failed to hear the entrance of a third person, 
whose appearance sent the color flying into the 
dancer’s face, and as instantly it paled again as 
io 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


she watched him. Kent was made aware of his 
presence by a cap and ulster which were let slip to 
the floor behind his feet, and he turned to stare amaz- 
edly into the face of Helen Howard’s husband. 

Herbert Stagmar was not a short man, but one so 
muscularly built that he impressed one more with the 
broadness of his shoulders than with his length of 
limb. His head was superbly poised, his face that of 
a strong man. His hair was brown, not thick, and 
slightly wavy. His forehead was powerful, his brows 
straight, eyes of steel blue, nostrils sensitive as those 
of an Arabian horse, his chin smooth and finely 
molded, and his mouth straight and strong. There 
was a certain majesty in his movements, that was 
accustomed to make people who knew him but slightly 
somewhat nervous and awed in his presence. This 
last was possibly due in part to his reputation, which 
was great enough to make him the equal, in the eyes 
of his countrymen, of any crowned head of other 
nations. He carried about him an undeniable 
atmosphere of conscious power, uncontrollable 
ambition, unthwarted success; but he had never been 
called conceited. He was beyond conceit. He was 
rarely flattered, for he was beyond that, too. People 
who knew him thought often of him, feared, wor- 
shiped, envied, admired, sought after, hated, but 
never despised him. All of his known actions were 
quoted, discussed, and commented on continually. 
His inner life — that which he chose that none should 
know — was, curiously enough, in this curious world, 
never known. He had the invaluable faculty of 
secretion. 


A SOCIAL LION 


Stagmar to-night was clad in a rough suit of brown 
tweeds, for it was not his habit to frequent such 
places of amusement. He had been upon one of his 
periodic expeditions into the heart of the vulgar dis- 
trict of an ugly city, and had passed the theater from 
whose posters his wife’s name stared at him, in his 
return to cleanliness. Outside its doors he caught 
the rumors of the accident, and had immediately 
sought the dressing-room to which his name admitted 
him. It was supposed by Dobbs that the great writer 
was seeking data for a story. 

When Stagmar entered he had given his wife 
one rapid look, which checked the exclamation that 
had risen, with her color, to her lips. Kent, after 
seeing him, was silent, waiting to perceive the pur- 
pose of his friend’s coming. The dancer’s husband 
did not keep them waiting. 

“They told me, Helen, that you had been severely 
injured. ’’ 

“They told the truth,’’ she answered in a low 
voice, scarcely looking at him. 

“Yes. It’s quite true,’’ Kent put in. “I’ve been 
saying to — to Mrs. Stagmar — pardon me, Herbert — 
that a retirement from her profession and entire rest 
will be necessary for some months.’’ 

“I trust,’’ replied the writer in a calm voice, “that 
Miss Howard will not oppose such a necessity.’’ 

Helen Stagmar looked her husband squarely in the 
face. She was perfectly colorless, and her lip curled 
defiantly. “Miss Howard does oppose a necessity, 
and for very good and sufficient reasons, Mr. Stag- 
mar,” she answered quietly, with something nearer to 


12 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


contempt in her tone than she had ever used before 
toward this man. 

At her words Stagmar smiled, genially and still 
with an illogical sadness. “I beg your pardon, my 
dear,” he said. 

She looked at him for a moment with quivering 
lips. He was himself, as she had known him, always. 
In another instant she burst into a passion of uncon- 
trollable sobs. 

“Come, come, Helen, this is unnecessary. I came 
here to discuss many things with you. There is no 
time to waste. Calm yourself, for we must see what 
is to be done. Kent, kindly see to a carriage. I shall 
want about twenty minutes,” he added in an under- 
tone as the doctor rose at once, and, after nodding 
agreement, went to join Fifine. 

For the first time in a little more than three years 
Herbert Stagmar and his wife were alone together. 
The man sat silently beside her couch as she struggled 
painfully to regain composure. He remained perfectly 
passive, but his simple presence acted upon her like a 
draught of some soothing drug. In three or four 
minutes she lay quiet, only sobbing convulsively at 
intervals, as a child does after a punishment. With 
her eyes resting intently upon him, Stagmar began to 
speak : 

“You must surely understand, Helen, that I am 
well aware of your reasons for not being willing to 
undergo the rest which Kent has prescribed for you. 
Your entire independence of me, ever since we sep- 
arated, has hurt me often, but I would never interfere 
with what you rejoiced in as your liberty. I know, 


A SOCIAL LION 


too, that with the life you have led, you could 
not, even if you had cared to, have laid by sufficient 
money to carry you through a time when you would 
be incapable of earning any. Understand that I have 
no wish to break that compact which we made many 
years ago. I cannot receive you into my house, nor, 
after the necessary arrangements have been made, 
shall I even visit you. I am a selfish man. My name 
and fame are all in all to me, for they are all I have. 
Nevertheless you are still, in a way, my wife. I can- 
not permit you to suffer, bodily. Therefore I say to 
you something which I request you not to oppose. 
During the next six months you must accept my sup- 
port. You shall live where you choose, and shall 
choose whom you will for a companion. A suitable 
allowance in every way will be made, and you must 
be settled within two days. That is all I have to say; 
but I shall remain with you to-night until you have 
accepted the fact. I am sorry to appear harsh to 
you, as I do, I see, but I’ve been growing harsh of 
late years, I fancy, Helen.” 

It was some moments before Helen Howard spoke, 
and when she did so it was with dreamy, cat-like pre- 
cision: 

‘‘And Joan? Had you forgotten that all these 
years I have been dancing for two?” 

‘‘Oh! I had forgotten your child, I confess. Is 
she not provided for?” 

‘‘No. And there is something that I must say to 
you. Something that you must know and believe. 
You have never once called her yours, Herbert. I 
have noticed that — I used to cry over it bitterly in 

H 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


those last quarrels. But she is. She is our child — - 
yours and mine. You must believe that. I have sup- 
ported her through these years gladly. It has not 
been hard, and I should not have wanted to yield her 
even to you. I have seen her several times. She is 
very beautiful, Herbert. I do not wish to give her 
up.” 

“I have not asked you to give her up. She must 
be old enough by this time, however, to be able to 
earn something for herself. She is — she must be sev- 
enteen. ” 

Helen had looked fixedly at her husband during 
this speech. A light color tinged her cheeks as she 
spoke again. “You do not believe what I tell you?” 

Stagmar slightly shook his head. “It is so obvi- 
ously to your interest, Helen.” 

“Oh, how low I must seem to you, if you will take 
such a point of view! Would to God, Herbert, that 
there were some way of proving to you that I am tell- 
ing the truth! It is for the girl’s sake — and for yours, 
too, Herbert. Joan has seemed to me like a bit of 
your soul put into a woman’s body. She might almost 
make up to you, if you would let her, what you lost 
in — in me. Why wouldn’t you see her just once?” 

Herbert Stagmar shook his head impatiently to 
stop her speaking. He had retreated into a corner, 
and was studying over something. La Caralita knew 
his ways. He had not changed. She watched his 
face anxiously, knowing by its expression that his 
mind was working rapidly. Stagmar’s argument with 
himself was arbitrary. He had always been rather 
given to ways of action which the world deemed remark- 

15 


A SOCIAL LION 


able and unwarranted. He was proud of his sympathy 
with outcast humanity, and to this his private works 
bore ample testimony. It would be through a wind- 
ing course that one would have to follow his logical 
sophistry this time, and it is perhaps fairer to him to 
state merely the conclusion at which he ultimately 
arrived, only pausing to remark that he had this time 
accomplished rather more than he set out to do. At 
the end of five minutes he turned toward his wife with 
a simple remark: “I will adopt the girl, but she 
must be called Joan Howard.” Then he added 
as an after-thought, “Of course, living with me 
she will be treated as mine, but she can have no 
mother. ” 

Tears that were rather bitter brightened the 
mother’s eyes at the last words, but they were not 
allowed to fall. “Thank you, Herbert,” she said 
a little brokenly. “You are just. I have not asked 
for more than that.” 

“Had you been what in those days I was foolish 
enough to pray you to be, I would have given to you 
all that is wasted in me now. But, as you are, what 
more can you be to me than to — well — Snippington, 
let us say.” 

“Snippington!” Helen gave a little cry, and for 
the first time clutched Stagmar’s arm nervously. 
“You know of him, Herbert? Then do not let him 
learn that he is discovered. He would kill me, Her- 
bert, if he should be exposed.” 

“Kill you? Is he brute enough for that? How- 
ever, you’re in no danger. None of us who know it 
cares enough to tell. He’s a cad. I doubt if the 

16 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CAR ALITA 


ladies who attend his church so devoutly would 
believe — ” 

There came the doctor’s tap at the door. “One 
thing more, Herbert. You — are no longer of the 
faith, are you?” 

“No, Helen; I am nothing. I have discarded both 
a creed and a God. The .God of men is not worthy 
of worship. ” 

“Oh! but Joan?” she added, breathlessly. 

“I attempt no influence in religion. My daughter 
shall choose her own belief.” 

Helen sighed heavily. Not even his use of the 
word daughter could take her mind from the weight 
of her sacrifice of faith, as she knew it. But her “so 
be it” was said. 

Stagmar had been a little surprised at himself at 
the ease with which he was able to pronounce that 
word, and surprised, too, at the pleasant warmth 
which crept into him at the knowledge that something 
human belonged to him. 

Kent and Fifine entered together. “The carriage 
is ready, Miss Howard, if you are. You had better 
not attempt to walk. Lie still there, and Stagmar 
and I will take you up just as you are, on that rug. 
You must have a warm wrap, though.” 

The little man looked about helplessly, until Fifine 
approached with a heavy cloak of black velvet edged 
with gray fur. After it was on, La Caralita lay back 
for a moment, faint with the effort of rising. She was 
utterly unconscious of her husband’s eyes fixed on her 
with an irrepressible sorrow. And at that moment no 
one knew the heartbreak in his soul. Never had 


17 


A SOCIAL LION 


painter a subject like this. Here, in the subdued 
light, all the age and weariness and sin in the face 
of the woman were hidden, and her features were 
white and delicately strong. Her glorious red hair 
waved back from her head in rough masses, her eyes 
were dark and velvety as night, and the rich folds of 
her mantle made a marvelous background for the 
transparent jeweled hands which might have done so 
much that was good, and had done so much that was 
— not good. 

The writer and the doctor bore her slowly, pain- 
fully, toward the carriage. The maid followed behind, 
carrying extra wraps and pillows. They placed her 
upon one seat in a reclining position, while Kent and 
Fifine sat opposite. The dancer smiled faintly out at 
the little crowd which had gathered at the door, 
clenching her hands in her pain, and looking in badly- 
concealed anxiety toward Stagmar. 

“Are you not coming?” she asked in an under- 
tone. 

Stagmar lifted his hat, and bowed gravely. “I 
should inconvenience you,” he said, politely; then 
seeing her eager disclaimer, he added in a different 
tone, “No, really Helen, it is impossible. I shall come 
to your hotel to-morrow morning for a few moments, 
that the arrangements may be completed. Expect 
me at twelve, and until then you are to resign your- 
self entirely to the doctor. Good night.” 

While the little group of men went back into the 
theater, gossiping eagerly over what they had seen, 
Stagmar watched the carriage drive out of the alley in 
the darkness, and then he, too, moved away toward the 

18 


DRESSING-ROOM OF LA CARALITA 


avenue, thinking deeply. He confessed now that he 
had astonished himself. Had not the old fascination 
died yet within him? Could he still feel for this 
woman? Verily, she merited no kindness from 
him, though she had been his wife; for Herbert Stag- 
mar was an upright man, one who loathed bestiality 
in himself with all his heart. 

Helen Howard, burning with fever in her hotel 
bed, the delirious phrases running incoherently off 
her lips, was still happier than it seemed to her she 
had ever been. Before her distorted vision rose what 
appeared to her to be a great ball of glorious, warm- 
ing light, and the name that she called it by was the 
next day’s noon. 


i9 


CHAPTER II 


THE COMING OF JOAN 

A very trim footman and a very slim maid, both in 
the garb quietly suited to their positions, stood side 
by side on the platform of one of the great railway 
stations in Chicago. They spoke together occasionally 
in subdued tones, now and then glancing expectantly 
at the clock on the side of the building nearest them. 

Behind these two, and waiting for the same train, 
stood Robert Courtenay, carelessly well dressed, 
bored, as usual, with a meerschaum in his mouth, and 
the devil in his head peering out through his eyes — it 
might also be added, as usual. He had come down to 
meet Horace Chatsworth, an artist, a friend of his, who 
was returning to-night from a summer sketching tour 
in the West. The artist’s abode was Bohemia, the 
land where all nations are as one, the land wherein all 
men are brothers, the passport to which is neither 
riches nor high respectability, but something felt, 
not spoken, something innate, God-bestowed, impos- 
sible to understand, impossible to mistake. And in 
Bohemia Robert Courtenay, betimes a member of the 
Board of Trade, and of the loftiest circles of exclusion, 
stood a more popular citizen than his friend, the 
artist, low of birth, high of talent, and treasuring 
this citizenship as all he had. 


20 


THE COMING OF JOAN 

The November daylight was gone. It was late 
afternoon, and the station lamps were alight. The 
train from the West, ten minutes late, was due. 
There came the measured clang of the bell, the 
grinding roar of wheels, and the ponderous engine, 
breathing harshly with the weight of its long train, 
came plunging into the shed, weary with long rush- 
ing over twilight plains. The footman and his com- 
panion whispered hurriedly to each other, and moved 
up the platform, anxiously scanning the alighting trav- 
elers. Courtenay looked after them with curiosity. 
“Wonder who Stagmar’s expecting. ” he thought; and 
then half unconsciously strolled off after them. 

A stream of begrimed men and women were pour- 
ing from the ends of each car and hurrying down the 
long platform, in the dazed manner of those who have 
been moving rapidly for many hours. The last per- 
son in the last car to alight was Horace Chatsworth, 
and just in front of him walked a young lady, clad 
from head to foot in ill-fitting black, her pale face 
hidden by a heavy veil. She was not very old to judge 
from her slender figure, and she was visibly puzzled at 
the appearance of so many people. She stumbled in 
her descent of the car steps, and then impatiently 
pushed the thick gauze from her face, revealing a pair 
of wondering orbs, which stared blankly at the rap- 
idly moving crowd around her. It was a moment or 
two before her eyes encountered those of a man stand- 
ing close beside her. No sooner had she done so 
than she gave an impulsive start, as if half determined 
to address him, and the disappointment written in her 
features was plain as he greeted Chatsworth with a 


2 


A SOCIAL LION 


cordial shake of the hand and moved off toward the 
distant exit. Robert Courtenay’s face generally 
proved an interesting study to girls, especially when 
he exerted himself to make it so, as he had not in this 
case. The stranger was not left alone again, however, 
for she had not yet withdrawn her eyes from the 
retreating figure when she was accosted by the trimly 
liveried footman. 

“I beg pardon, madam; are you Miss Howard?” 

Joan turned instantly, with a relieved air. ‘‘Oh, 
yes, I am Miss Howard.” Then with a glance of 
astonishment, “You can’t be Mr. Stagmar?” 

The footman did not smile. “I am James, Miss, 
Mr. Stagmar’s footman. This is Jennie Merriman, 
the maid. If you’ll please to give me your checks, 
I’ll see to your trunks, ’m, and you can go right to 
the carriage with her, ’m.” 

Joan Howard handed the man her single check 
confusedly, and then silently followed the guidance of 
the girl, whom she uncomfortably felt to be much 
more at home in this position than she. The short 
wait in the noise outside, the long drive in the luxuri- 
ous carriage, which was lighted within by tiny electric 
globes; the long stretches of streets that first were 
thronged and badly paved, and then quiet and 
smooth; the appearance of tall stone dwellings, and 
the final halt before a great marble house standing 
majestically alone in the center of a great square of 
ground, seemed to the girl’s tired brain like the unreal 
processions of some misty dream, all so new and so 
unsympathetic that Joan heartily wished them dreams 
from which she might awake with the morning. 


22 


THE COMING OF JOAN 

With imperceptible hesitation and no little dread 
at heart, she followed the maid up the low steps. A 
great door swung quietly open, and a butler requested 
her to go with him. They went through a large hall, 
and then down a little one to a closed door. Upon 
this the butler rapped mildly. A voice from within 
said, distinctly, “Very well, Carson,’’ and immedi- 
ately the man hurried away leaving Joan standing 
nervously by herself before the still closed door. She 
found that she dreaded this first meeting with her 
famous father more than she had anticipated. 

In a moment the door opened before her, and she 
was drawn into the center of a large room, walled 
high on two sides with books, stuffy, as it seemed to 
her, with heavy rugs and oaken furniture, and withal, 
containing many things whose ornamental powers 
struck her as doubtful, and of whose use she had no 
idea. These perceptions were almost unconscious, 
however, for her entire attention was absorbed in the 
man who stood before her. It had not fallen to her 
lot to see many men in her life, but this one was as 
different from the rest as is a king from a monk. He 
was not tall, she thought to herself, but before him 
she felt like an ignorant child, and, moreover, that 
there was no possibility of concealing her ignorance 
from him. She was not afraid of him, as many were, 
nor, like some, did she wish to get away from his 
presence. A dream of hers was realized. This was 
the realization of a dream. 

And Stagmar? He had awaited the arrival of 
his quasi-daughter with unmistakable apprehension. 
She was here before him now, pale, tired, soiled, with 

23 


A SOCIAL LION 


something earnest in her eyes, and something pathetic 
in her mouth. He was pleased. After he had stood 
off looking at her for a moment, he came and took 
her hand. 

“Your eyes, my dear, what color are they, black 
or blue?” he asked, without apparent nervousness. 

“Neither,” she answered, wondering if this were 
the usual manner of authors; “they’re gray.” 

Stagmar turned his back on her for a moment, that 
she might not see the sudden light in his face. 

He faced about again quickly, and smiled upon the 
girl, who was looking at him mutely. “My dear, you 
are in a strange world, are you not?” he asked, kindly. 
“Let me help you off with your wraps; I want to see 
your face for one moment before you go to your room. 
It is pleasant for me to feel that I have some one 
whom I can call my own near me. You are very tired 
with the long journey, I do not doubt, otherwise I 
should greatly regret my being obliged to go to a 
dinner this evening. It seems like desertion to you, 
I’m afraid, but a long night’s rest will not hurt you, 
I think. Your first days here will doubtless be rather 
dreary to you. The longing for old companions and 
places will be strong, I know. But it will wear off, 
my dear, as your interests here grow.” He paused, 
a little suddenly. 

“You are very good, fa — Mr. — ” 

“Father,” he put in softly. 

She smiled at him. That had been really kind, 
she thought. “I don’t think I shall miss the convent 
much. I was very glad to come.” 

“It was getting too small for you, wasn’t it? I 
24 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


had fancied that. I suppose, Joan, that there were 
some things about your coming that you did not fully 
understand, were there not?” 

His daughter looked at him quietly for a moment. 
“There were many things that I was not told. There 
were a good many that I do not understand yet, but 
I thought out some of them for myself. Since I have 
seen you, too, it makes a great deal of difference. 
But,” she added, irrelevantly, “my mother was very 
good to me.” 

Stagmar nodded kindly to her. “We will talk of 
some of these things later. Your maid will show you 
to your room now, for it’s time I left. Unfortunately, 
one can’t be late to a dinner. This is my study, 
Joan. I’m always in it by six in the morning. If 
you are awake and lonely to-morrow, come down. 
Good night now. I trust that you will find everything 
as you like it, and that you will be able'to sleep.” 

He held open the door of the study as she passed 
out, and stood watching her for a moment as she 
ascended the stairs, accompanied respectfully by the 
maid. Three minutes later he left the house, really 
regretting that he had taken pains to provide an 
engagement for the evening. “Poor child, she thinks 
I have not treated her courteously. She is right, I 
admit; but I had an idea that sensitiveness would be 
an absent quality in her. Helen — Helen was right.” 

Meanwhile Joan had been ushered through what 
seemed to her the corridors of a palace, and was finally 
shown into a bedroom larger than that of the abbess 
at home, as she called the convent still. In this room 
she was left with the request to ring when she was 

25 


A SOCIAL LION 


ready for dinner. Being extremely hungry after the 
day’s excitement, she made all speed to prepare her- 
self for what she had been accustomed to regard as 
the simplest of the three meals. The preparations 
were made with rather a heavy heart, however, for 
Stagmar had been right when he had said to himself 
that she was hurt at her reception. Now that her 
father’s magnetic presence was no longer near to 
charm her thoughts away from herself she reflected 
bitterly upon the many little things which had been 
omitted in this first meeting between two who were 
to spend their lives together. Convent bred as she 
was, Joan Howard was nevertheless too much the 
child of her parents to be ignorant of all the little 
courtesies which she had never experienced, but had 
read of frequently, and in her father’s own books. 
Try as she would now to forget, her heart revolted 
angrily against what she decided to be pure selfishness 
on her father’s part. 

Presently, as she began to examine her room a lit- 
tle, she was astonished and ashamed of her anger. 
The furnishings were all in gray and white. Heavy 
gray silk covered the walls, and here and there was 
painted upon it a white, beribboned medallion bear- 
ing her own initials. The chairs, tables, bureau, 
dressing-table, and pierglass were all enameled in 
gray, and the upholstery was done in white. The 
curtains of the bed and windows were of showery 
white lace, caught with knots of gray ribbon brocaded 
in tiny trails of violets. Upon the bureau lay all 
the brushes, boxes, bottles, and implements which 
make up the modern toilet paraphernalia, and all 

26 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


were of delicate ivory and glass, each bearing her 
monogram upon it. Never before had the young girl 
dreamed of such things, and she stood aghast at the 
amount of work which had been expended upon her- 
self. She had been used to no more attention than 
half a hundred busy, devout women who considered 
her almost as one of their number, and treated her 
accordingly, could give — and that was little enough. 
But Joan Howard had in her the instincts of a 
lady, and it was not going to take her long to 
accustotn herself to all the strange and interesting 
things that her father’s house held in such numbers. 
The two things in her room that touched her most 
were a bowl filled with fragrant purple violets which 
stood on her table, and opposite them, beneath a 
beautiful head of Titian’s great Madonna, a Copen- 
hagen jar bearing a cluster of tremulous white chrys- 
anthemums. Joan had been born and bred a Catholic, 
and the teachings of the Church linger long in a mind 
well trained in them. She fell upon her knees before 
this newly-consecrated shrine, and the first Ave Maria 
ascended before it from a pair of pure young lips. 

Herbert Stagmar had thought of this situation fre- 
quently — a young, womanish girl suddenly removed 
from the bare walls of a convent in which she had 
spent her life, and placed amid such surroundings as 
these, with all the homage attendant on wealth. 
Truly it was a daring risk, though a necessary one. 
But he had bitten his lip as he ordered the prepara- 
tions to be hurried through. 

At dinner Joan was astounded. As it was a Friday, 
and her fast day, she tossed up a half-humorous 

27 


A SOCIAL LION 


prayer for forgiveness for tasting the various forms of 
meat which she dared not refuse, for she stood highly 
in awe of the ceremonious Carson. She did not enjoy 
the meal. It seemed very long and lonely, and she 
would have been infinitely better satisfied with bread, 
milk, and fruit than with the dishes which were really 
simple in the eyes of Mr. Stagmar’s chef. At St. 
Catharine’s, however, the table rules had been strict, 
and during this meal Joan maintained her customary 
attitude of gravity, which passed very well for digni- 
fied nonchalance. And Carson remarked later to the 
housekeeper that Miss Howard resembled the master 
most remarkably, the effect of the tribute to Jean not 
being spoiled by the mysterious glance which accom- 
panied his words. 

During the meal Joan wondered dismally if she 
should be obliged to repeat this solitary performance 
nightly during the winter. No doubt her father was 
very popular, and always busy. She was about to 
address Carson on the subject, but was too timid to 
speak. The idea of her having invitations of her own 
had not yet occurred to her. Dessert over she fled the 
dining-room precipitately, having refused coffee, to 
Carson’s chagrin. Upon arriving at her room, Jenny 
met her to say that her trunk had been unpacked, and 
to ask if she wished her to stay. Joan shook her 
head, glad enough to be alone at last. 

An hour later the red head reposed peacefully on 
its unwontedly soft pillow. The room was perfectly 
still, and a watery moonbeam filtered in through the 
half-open window. Joan slept, and dreamed of many 
unaccustomed things, among others of a tall, graceful 

28 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


man with a meerschaum between his cynical lips and 
a devil peering from his smiling eyes. 

While she sleeps, even though she dreams, we are 
to go back together along the road of her coming from 
that Western convent, and you shall learn into what 
sort of woman this daughter of a famous man had 
grown to be. 

It was in Southern California, the garden of the 
world, the land of Spanish gentlemen and Mexican 
rancheros, that the followers of St. Francis reached 
their highest holiness. A hundred years ago the 
Church had good cause to look with favor upon this 
spot where her teachings were so reverently followed. 
And to-day, in those fair, secluded valleys, there still 
rests a remnant of that faithful company. A nunnery 
or two, a single monastery perhaps, and three or four 
convents are all, yet they prove that faith is slow to 
die. Helen Howard, clinging to her last possession — 
religion — brought her child of sorrow here, that it 
might be reared apart from the glamour of her own 
life, and remain ignorant of its father’s name. Here 
the baby was left, and here, in the great San Gabriel 
Valley, sixty miles from the City of the Angels, and 
not so far as that from heaven, Joan Howard Stagmar 
grew, and thrived, and absorbed the religion of her 
fellows. 

The child had been given the valley for a home at 
too early an age for acute perception of its rare beau- 
ties. She saw, but did not often note, all the subtle 
changes that it underwent in a single day; the glori- 
ous sun, which, rising from over a mountain top, drove 
a long, shimmering cloud of roseate mist up the valley 

29 


A SOCIAL LION 


every morning; at the hazy stretch of slopes clad by 
midday in varying tints of bluish-green; at the wealth 
of tangled foliage and the sick-sweet breaths of 
orange-blossom air; and later the saintly dying of the 
day, the life-blood of the fallen sun spilled over the 
deepening sky, the holiness of the evening hour tolled 
out by the clear, mellow clang of the convent bell, 
flung back a dozen times, ever fainter, from the suc- 
cession of white-tipped peaks which barred the val- 
ley’s end, and lastly the zephyrous stillness of night, 
when the silver-spangled dome arched low over the 
garden of this earth-world which it loved. To one 
world-weary it would have been a bit of paradise; to 
Joan, accustomed to it, it was simply her home. 
Unconsciously it shaped her thoughts; the grand 
lines of all things there molded her character, for 
the time, into their own forms. The girl’s nature 
was pliable; there were all elements in her. And in 
her early surroundings it was the bit of Stagmar’s 
soul, or a streak of the mother-suffering, that stood 
forth most prominently. 

At the age of four Joan learned her alphabet, 
together with her prayers. She was the youngest 
daughter of the convent, and was copiously petted by 
all the older girls in the school, and also, when there 
was time, by the gentle, large-eyed nuns. These last 
the child instinctively preferred as companions to 
the great, noisy creatures with the heavy braids of 
hair and shrieks of laughter, and games, and talk 
which she did not understand. Later she looked to 
these girls not so much as companions as followers 
whom she might command as she liked. They were 
3 ° 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


all tractable, and she was good to them, and kept 
their awe, especially by the strange speeches which 
she made sometimes, with her large, gray eyes wan- 
dering over the snowy peaks that looked down from a 
distance on the green cloister. 

At an earlier age than is usual among people of her 
simple life Joan wandered alone down the stream to 
the spot where, as the poet told us, the brook and 
river meet. She was not reluctant to pass over. 
Rather, she leaped from one to the other at a single 
bound, and then stood still, looking back regretfully. 
Alas, for the woman-child whose lot was cast among 
child-women! She never tried, however, to make any 
one understand that change of emotions that had 
come to her free spirit, the birth of untold dreams, 
which no one who has been long a woman of the 
world remembers, and which prayer will drive away 
as readily as repletion of pleasure. As for a man’s 
understanding it, it is as far from his comprehension 
as is the gold of a sunrise which he does not usually 
trouble himself to get up and see. 

Joan’s duties at the convent were not many. She 
attended mass and numerous sets of prayers. She had 
already as much book learning as her simple teachers 
could give. She sewed, cooked, swept her own cell- 
like room, and frequently confessed, and when all 
was done and said she had still several hours of the 
daylight remaining to her. These she now devoted to 
herself, seldom even seeing the new sets of country 
girls who were entering the school year by year. 
Joan was not simple-hearted. How could she be, 
daughter of Helen Stagmar? Her mind, like those 

3 1 


A SOCIAL LION 


companion mountains opposite, reached far up, at 
times into dazzling heights of space. What she found 
there and brought back to earth with her from the 
high land constituted a heart’s peace in her lonelier 
hours. In her loneliness her thoughts sank to unfath- 
omable depths, whence she brought up grinning, 
imaginary skeletons of darkness to confront her 
angels. While these elements conflicted over the 
territory of her soul, she stole off to another path, a 
shady, green, dreamy one, whispering promises that 
were like memories, called for some strange reason a 
lover’s lane. 

Verily, a daring lover he would be who ventured 
within these vestal precincts! Nevertheless, many a 
maid has walked here, not too lonely, finding an idyll 
in her own vague imaginings. Here for a time Joan 
wandered, finding the mystic password into the king- 
dom, but no sentinel at a gate to whom she might 
confide it. She waited gracefully for a while, and then, 
growing impatient with lagging destiny, ran out at 
the end of the lane, and so home through the fields at 
early evening, finding herself all but late for vespers. 
Pouting a little she began to sing, and lo! in the high 
strains of the “ Ora pro Nobis ,” quite forgot that she 
had waited alone, vainly. 

Sometimes Joan saw her mother, but more rarely 
as the years went on and that mother’s name came to 
be more widely known. The visits were now six 
months apart or more, and the daughter thought of 
her less and less often. Helen’s marvelous hair, and 
deeply glowing eyes, and face that bore the stamp of 
wide experience in a great world, usually made a 

3 2 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


strong impression upon casual acquaintances. But 
Joan was too innocent yet to read that expression, 
and for the rest her own mirror gave her much such a 
picture for herself, of thick red hair — auburn, if you 
like — and large gray eyes that could turn very dark, 
and candid brows and lips whose delicate curves 
baffled their reader, so that the mother’s face was no 
novelty. She wondered over La Caralita sometimes, 
but for sympathetic love, Sister Elizabeth, who 
had held her, a six months’ baby in her arms, did 
well, and Joan was satisfied with her care. It was 
upon her unknown father that the young girl wasted 
her dreams. He was some one to speculate over, for 
there were possibilities in him of anything from a 
prince to a priest. But for all that Joan Howard did 
better without parental love than most children would. 

La Caralita did not bring her daughter many gifts, 
and those that she gave were invariably of one 
species — books. Books of all kinds she sent by mail, 
and brought with her upon her rare visits. The con- 
vent library was small and very dry, and Helen’s 
tastes ran in more frivolous paths. It was in defer- 
ence to her husband that she selected for his child the 
best works by the best authors, in the best bindings 
possible to her income. Before Joan left the convent, 
therefore, she had accumulated and absorbed into her 
memory a very creditable library for a girl of her age. 
It was this which saved her from being commonplace, 
and it was due to her mother. All her father’s books 
had come to her in this way, and long before she knew 
that he was her father, she had picked them out as 
more to her liking than those of any author. Helen 


33 


A SOCIAL LION 


read these books, too, as was amply proved by the 
notes, not always worthless, scored upon the margins 
of the volumes sent to the daughter. Joan read many 
of these books to the nuns as they sat together sew- 
ing. They were not usually works which would have 
been advised by the father confessor, and the child- 
like creatures listened with a pleasant terror for the 
footsteps of the abbess with one ear, while drinking 
in the stories of the lives they could scarcely dream of 
with the other. Joan enjoyed their astonishment 
wickedly, and said to herself, with a little shrug, that 
at least it gave them something to confess, and that 
if it were so extremely wicked Father Allan would 
surely have stopped it long ago, which was, indeed, 
quite true. 

The young woman fed her imagination on these 
creations of others, but her own dreams and ambi- 
tions, gloriously vague, were forming her character. 
She grew impatient as many months went by. Her 
world had grown small to her. Was she to be left 
here in this safe, saintly, soul-crushing place all her 
young life? The thought was unbearable. Ah, child! 
Did you think that God had put you here with the 
mind you had, meaning to keep you in obscurity 
through many years, only to have you drop quietly 
into dust at last? Did you think to escape the trial? 
Did you imagine that each soul on earth is not tempted 
to its utmost limit? Wrong. Always the stancher 
the steel, the fiercer the blows, even till the rivet 
breaks. 

Joan suffered acutely from the thought that she had 
been cast aside in her very babyhood. The one con- 
34 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


necting link with the outside world, her mother, was 
slowly giving way. It was many months since her 
last visit, and in the rare letters came no hint of a 
removal from the life that now grew torturous. At 
last Joan broke the silence of her unhappiness and 
cried out bitterly, not to God, the vague Being to 
whom prayers were recited, but to her confessor. 
She did her best to express to him something of her 
young life and longing. She asked about her mother, 
and, for the first time, of her father. She begged to 
be allowed to depart from the convent, to earn her 
own bread in some city of the world. Her appeal was 
pathetic, but the words dropped into a small compre- 
hension. She was answered — how? 

The priest knew but little of her parentage. That 
little was not creditable. It would not be well for her 
to be with her mother, even if that course were pos- 
sible, which it was not. He could perceive, however, 
that this was not a happy state for her, to be of the 
world and not in it. But he had prayed, and had 
received an answer from heaven for her. Joan should 
take the veil. That was the holy end for which she 
had been destined. Parents had cast her off, Mother 
Church opened its arms to her. Let her rejoice and 
give thanks for her salvation. 

He was going on to say more, when Joan, who had 
been looking at him during the speech, white to the 
lips, rose suddenly from her knees, with a low excla- 
mation half of horror, half despair, and retreated 
slowly from his presence, with a something in her 
bearing which prevented the father from following 
her. 


35 


A SOCIAL LION 


Joan Howard ascended the clean, bare, narrow 
stairs, and shut herself into her clean, bare, narrow 
room, where she had passed the most of her lonely 
life. Never before had it seemed to her so intoler- 
able. With a sudden burst of desperate anger she 
tore from the wall a colored print of the Madonna, 
whose stiff attitude and expressionless face struck into 
her very heart with their want of sympathy. Crum- 
bling it up in one hand, she threw herself on the floor 
before her window, and gazed moodily out down the 
beautiful, darkening valley. Her burden was mighty. 
She understood to the full the significance of what had 
passed, for she had seen a similar process gone 
through with. She would have neither peace nor rest 
until she consented to. what they asked, and became 
wedded to that living death. She did not weep. Noth- 
ing could have made her pray. There was no escape. 
Her despair was mute, but mentally she cursed those 
who had brought her into the world. She could not 
put herself out of it without passing from hell to hell. 

It is well that God is merciful. Even at the mo- 
ment when Joan was wearily preparing for her sleep- 
less night, Herbert Stagmar was standing in the 
dressing-room of his wife, the dancer. His letter 
came in time. Joan had given no hint of yielding to 
the first series of persuasions. As though the person- 
ality of its writer clung to the pages of the missive, it 
was not suppressed, but was given the girl to read. 
Though she bent so eagerly over the writing, the 
words were fairly graven on her mind before she 
could grasp their import. Despair had dulled her 
senses. Even when she knew that she was to go, 

36 


THE COMING OF JOAN 


her freedom was not the foremost thought within her. 
No, it was that she had found her father, and that he 
was greater in her eyes than any man. 

Joan bade good-by to the nuns, the old buildings, 
and the valley, happily, almost regretfully. So soon 
is bitterness wiped from a young mind. And she set 
out on her long journey to her father with great joy 
in her heart and his letter still crushed in her hand. 
All was before her, the past was already fading into a 
memory as sweet as thoughts of old times are. And 
now she lies dreaming in the moonlight, in her room 
of white and gray, and with the morning sun will 
come the dawn of a vastly different life. 


37 


CHAPTER III 


MRS. HAMILTON'S FROM EIGHT TO ELEVEN 

During the twenty-minute drive toward his hos- 
tess’s house Stagmar endeavored conscientiously to 
produce a suitable frame of mind within himself. 
Never in his life had he felt less like sitting down to a 
magnificently appointed table, together with nine 
exclusive acquaintances, working religiously through 
the dozen dishes, after four of which one was amply 
satisfied, the rest being mere tempters toward apo- 
plexy, and doing his best, during the changes of 
painted sets of priceless china, to keep up his reputa- 
tion as a wit and a lion, that he might be sure of many 
more such invitations during the social season. This, 
Stagmar declared angrily to himself, was precisely 
what it amounted to, despite the fact that he had been 
to many hundreds of such dinners, and was destined 
to attend many more. Possibly some impatience was 
excusable in this instance, for not often during 
his life does a man behold a family walk in at the 
door of his lonely sanctum in the shape of a very 
beautiful and interesting daughter, upon whom he 
has not set eyes in seventeen years. Not unnaturally 
Stagmar would have liked to remain at home with 
this daughter, dine with her alone, which would have 
brought some bitter-sweet recollections to him, and 
38 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


later lead her affectionately into his study, there to 
sound the first depths of a new heart that belonged to 
him. But this engagement of his was of his own 
doing, and the shrug of his strong shoulders when he 
perceived that the carriage had halted at its destina- 
tion, was quite apropos of nothing. 

To Stagmar’s relief he was the last man in the 
dressing-room. He descended the stairs with an air 
of unruffled calm, which customarily cloaked a dis- 
agreeable mood. The nine people already assembled 
in the drawing-room Stagmar knew particularly well, 
and he was glad of this, for it made his evening’s task 
lighter. There were Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, his 
host and hostess, harmless, well-dressed people; Mr. 
and Mrs. Bromler Van Alyn, the one enormously 
wealthy, being Augustus Hamilton’s partner in the 
largest insurance house in the country, a good-look- 
ing man, the other the most charming lady in the 
city; Doctor and Mrs. J. Bartwick Kent, the doctor 
with a new pair of spectacles, his wife perfectly 
dressed, effusively formal, sought after, and brainless; 
Edith Kent, their daughter, asked to “fill in’’ at the 
last moment, slightly out of place, her sincere sweet- 
ness, loftiness of manner, and depth of thought, 
brought from — the heaven whence she had come most 
probably; the Reverend Titus Emollitus Snippington, 
the darling pastor of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church, 
the saintliest lady’s clergyman in the city, the most 
despicable man in his parish; and lastly Miss Eleanor 
Felton, a favorite of Stagmar’s, an old maid, blunt, 
brilliant, with a sufficiently large income, and tact 
enough to disguise her real worth among the people 

39 


A SOCIAL LION 


she knew, thereby making herself a pronounced social 
success. Stagmar was the tenth and last of this 
gathering of choice spirits. It was a small dinner. 

The author was charmed to see Mrs. Kent, hoped 
that he had not kept them all too long from their 
caviar. No, he was not making them out to be ani- 
mals; he believed that animals did not eat caviar. 
The clocks were just chiming; he was guiltless after all. 

These simpers with Mrs. J. Bartwick successfully 
exchanged, he passed on to the refreshing presence of 
Mrs. Van Alyn. She received him in her usual pleas- 
antly quiet manner. He had not come to the first of 
her musical mornings, but she knew how fully his time 
was occupied. She hoped to see him on Tuesday. 
It would be very good of him. That last article in 
the North American Review was excellently written, 
as it would naturally be, but she must beg to differ 
with him on one or two points at least. He was 
growing too cynical. The end of the nineteenth cen- 
tury was surely not one of retrogression morally, 
socially, artistically. 

Stagmar smiled thoughtfully, shook his head, and 
was about to reply when up came Mr. Hamilton, all 
solemn with the responsibility of his hostship and his 
fresh trouser-creases, offering his arm to Mrs. Van 
Alyn. The author, as guest of honor, went off imme- 
diately to his hostess at the tail of the small proces- 
sion. Mr. Van Alyn was happy in the imposing 
shadow of Mrs. Kent, while Doctor Jim trotted mod- 
estly beside Miss Felton. Snippington was all senti- 
mental devotion at the prospect of dribbling quotations 
at Miss Kent for the next three hours. 


4 o 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


The dining-room was grandly imposing, with its 
tapestry hangings of old rose, and its carved black 
walnut buffet, upon which reposed enough old silver 
for three curiosity shops. The table was in green and 
white, with a large centerpiece of lilies-of-the-valley 
and white hyacinths, interspersed with maiden-hair. 
The rose-colored lights glowed softly over the gold 
and glass, the tiny triangles of lemon were squeezed 
over the caviar, and the dinner — heaviest, stupidest, 
and highest function of society — was begun. 

Bromler Van Alyn opened a general conversation 
with the question whether Stagmar was soon to pub- 
lish another book. 

“I’m playing with a novel,” responded Herbert, 
indifferently, “but don’t expect to have it published 
for months. My stock of wits has left me in a sad 
condition lately, and in order to rest them I have been 
doing a series of short plays for Harper’s.” 

“How clever!” murmured Mrs. Kent, when unin- 
tentionally Edith drowned her remark. 

“Weak wits for short plays, Mr. Stagmar! That 
is hard to believe. It is generally conceded, is it not, 
that nothing is so difficult to write as a short play?” 

“Good short plays, Miss Kent, yes. Those require 
a master-hand, I admit. But good ones are those 
which can be effectively acted. Mine were written 
only to be read. They consist of a large amount of 
empty epigrams — in this day a step better than pun- 
ning.” 

“I have been doing a remarkably silly thing 
lately,” said Eleanor Felton, addressing Stagmar dur- 
ing a little pause. “When they first appeared I did 

41 


A SOCIAL LION 


not read such books as ‘The Heavenly Twins,’ 
‘Dodo,’ ‘A Yellow Aster,’ ‘The Green Carnation,’ 
and the rest of that class which you know. I am 
always behind the times in literature through dawdling 
over the old-fashioned geniuses. Finally, however, I 
decided that I would know something of the things 
that everybody constantly referred to. For the past 
month I have been knee-deep in that species of novel, 
until my small world has been turned upside down. 
My brain is crowded with images of boyish rou£s, who 
fall into dissertations of the fates of life over pots of 
marmalade, with young children who improvise start- 
lingly witty anthems for the benefit of visiting princes, 
of young women who always compose symphonies 
while eating breakfast, which, by the way, consists of 
cigarettes and grilled bones; of lady’s maids who 
linger over pocket copies of Schopenhauer, and other 
incidents equally surprising but tiresome when taken 
by the gross. Tell me, Mr. Stagmar, are these the 
books that are going down to posterity as representa- 
tive of the nineteenth century?” 

Two or three of the company had listened interest- 
edly to Miss Felton’s speech, the others had drifted 
off to conversations of their own. The first of these 
now turned expectantly toward the author, who was 
smiling in some amusement at Miss Felton’s extracts. 

‘‘This applies very well to a discussion begun just 
before dinner by Mrs. Van Alyn and myself,” he said. 
“She was about to defend the morals and arts of our 
times, and I, I confess, was attacking them. Such 
books as you mention are a disease of the times — blas£ 
effusions of blas£ people about a blas£ society. The 

42 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


higher classes of civilization in certain countries are 
very surely retrograding. These books are the 
result of a certain phase of that existence, and as such 
may not impossibly go down to posterity. Personally 
speaking, I dislike them as I would dislike and be 
fascinated by the drunken phantasies of an absinthe 
drinker. However, I gladly admit that this class of 
novel, like the class of people therein portrayed, is 
only one type. Beyond these there are a few sensible, 
penetrating books written also — books of simple lives 
by simple writers, but worth how much more than the 
others I cannot say.” 

By his words the author had opened too wide a 
prospect for any one else to care to keep up the dis- 
cussion. After a little pause Mrs. Van Alyn re- 
marked, quietly, “Living has come to be a serious 
matter in these days.” 

“ ‘To them that ask it shall be given, and they 
that seek find,’ ” murmured Doctor Snippington, just 
why, no one knew. It was singularly inappropriate, 
but Mrs. Hamilton and Mrs. Kent smiled upon him 
in admiration, and he was content. 

“Find what?” broke in Eleanor, as brusquely as 
possible. She could not endure the minister. “Old 
miniatures, or blue and white? Nobody seeks any- 
thing in these days, except new fads or the latest dis- 
reputable lion. ” 

The conversation was closed. Nobody felt called 
upon to answer Miss Felton, who had sunk back with 
one defiant glance, and began discussing some late 
chemical experiments with Kent. Snippington glared 
at her covertly through his narrow eyes, nervously 

43 


A SOCIAL LION 


seeking a congenial topic of conversation with Edith, 
who had grown apathetic. Mr. Van Alyn was doing 
his best to explain the intricacies of margins in 
grain deals with Mrs. Kent, and making as much 
headway as was to be expected. Mrs. Van Alyn 
talked music with Mr. Hamilton, and Stagmar enter- 
tained his hostess with mild anecdotes of Bohe- 
mian life. While he succeeded, as usual, in making 
himself extremely agreeable — fascinating, ladies called 
it — his words came with less ease than usual, for his 
mind wandered from its occupation. His eyes rested 
on the image of Edith Kent across the table. Men- 
tally he was comparing her with the girl he had left at 
home. He failed, however, to judge between them. 

Edith was five years older than Joan Howard, and 
had made her formal debut four years ago. Society 
she had known all her life. She was tall, slender, 
dignified, and rather imperious. Her self-possession 
was absolute. Her eyes were large and changeable, 
her heavy hair was yellow. Her complexion was 
exceedingly fair, her features strong and serene. 
There were few society men who had not proposed for 
Edith, her social position, and her money; but almost 
from her birth she had been tacitly destined to marry 
the only son of the Van Alyns, Robert Courtenay’s 
brother-in-law Malcolm. Both Edith and Malcolm had 
been accustomed to contemplate this marriage with 
quiet acquiescence and satisfaction. They were fond 
of each other as brothers and sisters are. Edith was 
beautiful, Malcolm a very good-looking young fellow. 
Both were of good family, both prospectively wealthy. 
It was in every way suitable, as Edith would have told 


44 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


you frankly. And, as she naively added that she had 
never cared for any one else in her life, who would 
call it untruth if she concealed, almost from herself, a 
little quiver in her heart that spoke denial? It was 
so new a thing, so vague, so fleeting, that made her 
eyes turn from one man’s gaze with a strange glow in 
their baffling depths. 

Stagmar? Did Stagmar mean it? Yes — no — yes — 
he could not tell. It was a thing too ill-defined to 
speak of. Neither knew when it had begun. Lo! 
Edith had paled slightly, and turned to Snippington 
with a sudden, useless question. Herbert’s eyes were 
upon his plate, and he finished the point of a most 
curious story. Mrs. Hamilton’s laughter rippled out 
spontaneously. Jim Kent used to tell the author that 
he was the only man in the city who could make a 
society woman laugh naturally. And Jimmy was a 
blunt man, who did not flatter. 

Time was passing, and Stagmar had something to 
say which he would be rather glad to have off his 
mind. During the next pause in conversation, which 
came at the entrance of the second entree, he spoke 
out, addressing every one in general. “I am desir- 
ous of offering a contribution toward feminine 
society this season,” he began, drawlingly, conscious 
that the phrase which had left his lips did not sound 
well. His audience raised its eyebrows and waited. 
Stagmar was not visibly nervous, nevertheless he 
avoided Kent’s eye with some dexterity. “I have a 
niece, a girl who has only just finished school, who is 
to take up her abode with me this winter. My sister 
has been dead for some years, and her desire was that 

45 


A SOCIAL LION 


I should take the girl when she was old enough. She 
is a charming little person, very young, and unused to 
society. Some evening within the month I shall give 
her an informal little debut, and may I depend upon 
one or two of you, who are her first acquaintances, to 
come and assist me?” 

He stopped, smiling around upon them easily, 
striving to read in their faces the construction put 
upon his speech. In reality he suddenly felt himself 
despicable; he had not meant to say so much — but, 
kismet! Each one at the table murmured something 
unintelligibly polite, and there came a drop in the 
conversation, so exceedingly awkward that Stagmar 
turned to his hostess, saying some nothing in a low, 
indifferent tone. Mrs. Van Alyn’s ensuing question 
was like a breath of cool air. 

“What is your niece’s name, Herbert?” Mrs. 
Van Alyn was an old lady, but extremely good form. 

“Her name is Joan Howard,” he responded 
bravely, thanking her with his eyes. 

“Is she already with you?” asked Eleanor Felton, 
in one of her expressionless tones. Unaccountably, 
perhaps, Miss Felton had heard the name Howard 
before, and disliked it correspondingly. The author 
understood her manner, but answered her quietly in 
the affirmative, adding that she had arrived only that 
afternoon. 

“Do not let her grow lonely, Herbert,” remarked 
Mrs. Van Alyn, whose thoughts were customarily 
wholesome. “I shall hope to see her before her 
debut, if it is possible.” 

“Charming!” said Mrs. Kent, and committed her- 

46 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


self no further on the subject of this unknown young 
lady from school. The subject was dropped. The 
author was satisfied, except with the manner of his 
friend, Miss Felton. 

Meantime, despite his preoccupation, Stagmar had 
been watching with interested amusement the small 
drama of glances being enacted by the two doctors. 
At the' first mention of the name Howard, Snipping- 
ton’s little face had become slightly flushed, and a 
glass of White Seal did not come amiss at the moment. 
Nevertheless, even through its pleasant sparkle he 
felt the deep-set eyes of Jim Kent fixed penetrat- 
ingly upon him. The little man squirmed and smirked 
beneath them, and made a series of agitated quota- 
tions to his unheeding neighbor. Really, it was a 
very small thing to startle him, but Kent was becom- 
ing almost rude. Altogether the Reverend Titus was 
heartily glad when Stagmar’s niece was dropped. 
Then, as he grew steadier the minister began to 
wonder over the writer’s connection with the name — 
Howard — Howard — Joan Howard. No one had ever 
before heard the author mention his sister. No one, 
as it happened, knew anything about Stagmar’s family 
at all. He had been a great figure in the literary 
world. That was sufficient for his being taken up. 
But an entire group of unfamed, common-blooded 
Stagmars — that was different. Snippington’s little 
mind made note of the facts. 

The conversation now wandered amiably and aim- 
lessly over a variety of subjects. Stagmar was 
absent-minded, Miss Felton bitterly sarcastic. In 
truth, this woman had been excessively annoyed. 

47 


A SOCIAL LION 


Her pride had been hurt. Her intimacy with the 
author was the thing in life which gratified her most. 
And it was a real intimacy. Every one in their circle 
accepted the fact. Stagmar went to her at all times, 
confided to her, as she had supposed, all things. And 
yet, now, it suddenly struck her forcibly that during 
their entire friendship he had spoken scarcely a dozen 
phrases to her of his birth and his life before he 
became known in Chicago. People had been accus- 
tomed to come to her when they wanted Stagmar’s 
probable opinion on some subject; even reporters 
annoyed her for interviews which the writer had 
refused them, and Eleanor was proud of the position, 
for she admired her friend as she did no one else. 
Years before, after his first great successes, a marriage 
had been hinted at between the two. Perhaps Eleanor 
had hoped for it. But the question had never come, 
and now she really preferred their relationship to a 
closer one. 

Stagmar began to be vexed with himself for hav- 
ing been prompted to announce his daughter’s coming 
in that place and manner. He looked at Eleanor 
and called himself a fool. He beheld Snipping- 
ton’s thoughts written on his face, and cursed 
inwardly. He caught Bromler Van Alyn’s quizzical 
squint fixed upon him, and returned it eye for eye, 
angrily. But from Jim Kent’s open disapproval he 
shrank, sensitively. 

Mrs. Hamilton possessed tact enough to perceive 
that in some way matters were a little strained, and 
called out pleasantly to Kent. 

“Doctor, you have kept us waiting all evening, 

48 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


and the story that I see in your eyes will be all the 
better on that account.” 

“You have evidently made a study of anecdotes, 
and how to discover them,” responded Jim, smiling 
broadly. “It is true that I was thinking over a little 
tale to myself, but as a dinner story I am afraid that 
it is lacking somewhat in point. It is simply one of 
those odd cases that we medicos run across sometimes. 
Possibly, however, you good church people might 
find some interest in it.” This last was accompanied 
by a sharp glance at the clergyman, who suddenly 
found it very desirable closely to examine his water 
goblet. 

“Doctor Snippington is searching for microbes, 
and Papa is telling stories of the church!” laughed 
Edith, gayly. “But do begin. It is such a novelty 
to have anything said about Father’s cases! He is 
never professional at home.” 

A polite silence ensued, in the midst of which Kent 
began to speak. 

“Possibly you do not remember — and if you do not 
my story is nothing — that little boy soprano who sang 
at St. Matthew’s last Easter, and made something of 
a sensation ; who also mysteriously disappeared after- 
ward, and could not be rediscovered?” 

“Oh, Doctor Kent! Do you know where he is?” 

“Of course we remember!” 

“Forgotten him! I made a tour of every church 
in the city to find him. I wanted him for a musical, 
but no one knew about him.” 

“Oh, yes! The one who sang the Cecilia prayer so 
marvelously. ” 


49 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Aha! So you do remember. Well, my story 
relates to him. I shall have to take you to a some- 
what disagreeable part of the city, however. 

“One evening about two weeks ago I happened 
to be down in one of the southwest settlements 
on a professional visit, and was returning at about 
half-past eight. Up town, just outside a theater 
I met Harold Blakely and Stillwell Drew, with one or 
two others. They seized upon me directly, and began 
talking in a chorus of some accident inside, and 
urged my going in. I ascertained that it was a 
dancer, who had had a heavy fall upon the stage, and 
seemed to be badly hurt. They were unable to get 
hold of a doctor, and my coming was quite providen- 
tial. Of course, I went inside, and the manager took 
me to the place where she had been propped up.” 

The doctor kept his eyes steadily on the cloth, but 
now Stagmar watched him, as collected and unruffled 
as any man there. At all events he was made of dif- 
ferent clay from Snippington. 

“I had a moment’s conversation with the actress, 
made a short examination, and found her rather 
severely injured. In the end I went to her hotel with 
her and the woman she had for a maid, to see her 
properly attended to. We got a couple of men to 
carry her up to her rooms, which were really very 
nice. In the little sitting-room that she had, I saw, 
as we went in, the figure of a child, a little boy, 
hunched up in a chair, asleep. He had a choir boy’s 
cassock half on, and had probably been trying to 
fasten it. I picked him up in my arms to lay him 
down straight on the little cot he had, and as I did 

50 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


so I recognized his face. It was that little soprano of 
St. Matthew’s. He is the son of the dancer, and his 
voice, though I am no connoisseur, seems to me 
exceptional. His mother is very reticent about him, 
but I gathered that he was not permitted to sing in 
churches on account of his mother’s profession. It’s 
a tremendous disappointment to the little chap, and 
when he’s alone he’s always getting out his old choir 
clothes to dress up in. What do you think of my 
story, eh?” 

“ ‘The sins of the fathers — ’ ” murmured Stagmar 
thoughtfully to himself, inaudibly, but his thought 
was drowned by the harsh tones of Eleanor Felton: 

“It is rather ridiculous, I think, their not allowing 
him in a choir simply because his mother is an actress. 
How should we know or care to know where the boys 
come from?” 

“As a matter of fact,” answered the doctor, “the 
little chap never tried any choir but St. Matthew’s, I 
believe. After he was dismissed from that his 
mother kept him with her. He’s a mere baby, you 
know; scarcely more than six, I should fancy.” 

“Oh, Doctor Snippington !” cried the hostess, 
radiant with the brilliancy of her latest idea, “St. 
Matthew’s being your own church, why couldn’t you 
see to having the poor little boy back, now that his 
address is known?” 

“Really,” coughed the clergyman, a kind of terror 
stealing over him, “the — a — the choir is quite out of my 
province, you know, dear Mrs. Hamilton. I make it 
a point not to interfere with any department of the 
church that is not under my direct supervision. I 

5i 


A SOCIAL LION 


feel that it would not be well for me to come in here. 
There might be objections, you know, from less char- 
itable persons. Very pathetic, very sad, indeed, I 
know, but — ” and with a shake of his head and a 
weak wave of his white hand the minister sank back 
overcome, just as the last course was brought in. 

“The style of the modern anecdote is degenerat- 
ing,” drawled Van Alyn to his neighbor. “That is 
the third pointless one that I have heard this week, 
and they all have seemed to take somebody by the 
ears. Look at Snippington now.” 

Titus Emollitus was furiously angry — at circum- 
stances. He dared not think that it was anything 
more than circumstances. But he had at least 
decided that James Kent was one to be avoided. 

Stagmar wondered at his friend in silence. Kent 
was now chatting complacently to Mrs. Van Alyn. 
The writer could not imagine his motive in bringing 
up the tale. The choir boy he had not seen on his 
single visit to his wife, but the folly of the rector was 
old, well known, and well continued. The dinner had 
been uncomfortable. 

Augustus Hamilton perceived that things were 
wrong, but even the study of his wife’s face brought 
no light to him as to the cause. He was relieved 
when the ladies rose, and the gentlemen followed 
them leisurely into Hamilton’s den, where cigars, 
coffee and liquors were served. 

Van Alyn and his host drew a couple of chairs 
together, and began talking city improvements with 
great vigor, over the cognac and Havanas. The other 
three were left together. A dinner of ten was a pro- 

52 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


found mistake, Kent observed finally, and the others 
acquiesced. Snippington, a small glass of creme de 
menthe in a slightly unsteady hand, faced the other 
two. He could have snapped like a dog at Stagmar’s 
coldly cynical face, but it was to Kent that he owed 
the grudge for that last bad quarter of an hour. Un- 
fortunately, however, James Kent appeared invulner- 
able to him then. Through Stagmar, his great friend, 
the doctor might perhaps be reached. Smiling as 
sweetly as a woman, Snippington looked coquettishly 
toward the two and remarked : 

“Toasts do not seem to be in order this evening, 
gentlemen, and yet I cannot refrain from proposing 
one to Mr. Stagmar, here. My dear fellow, happiness 
and health to you and your newly arrived niece, Miss 
Joan Howard.” 

The little eyes fastened so closely upon the other’s 
face could detect not the faintest emotion in Stag- 
mar’s face as he responded: 

“Thank you, Snippington. Let; me pour your 
Angelica. My niece and I respond gratefully to your 
kindness.” He emptied his glass, and then refilled 
it, as Kent did. 

“The compliment must be returned,” said the 
author, suavely. 

“Then let us all drink,” put in the doctor, “let us 
all drink to Snippington, and also, to kill two birds 
with a stone, to the long life of the small choir boy, 
against whom St. Matthew so evidently bears a 
grudge.” 

The singular emphasis placed upon these last 
words caused both Hamilton and Van Alyn to turn 
53 


A SOCIAL LION 


about and look toward them. Stagmar and Kent 
stood with glasses raised, intently regarding the min- 
ister, who was fumbling awkwardly with a decanter. 
Suddenly he looked up, his face fishy white, but his 
eyes steadily angry. “As the rector of St. Matthew’s 
church I must decline to be toasted in company with 
one with whom the saint is angry,” he said, quietly, 
with a faint attempt at a joke in his words. 

The others looked at each other; Van Alyn 
laughed, and the subject was dropped. Snippington 
alone remembered the incident, but he, so long as he 
lived, never forgot it. For the moment, however, the 
feeling was too strained to admit of a longer stay in 
the smoking-room, and scarcely fifteen minutes after 
the ladies had left them they returned to the drawing- 
room. The whole party seemed subdued. Four of 
the ladies were talking quietly to each other, while 
Edith Kent sat at the piano which stood in a little 
alcove, her hands wandering idly through an im- 
promptu melody. Stagmar, after stopping only to 
exchange a word or two with Mrs. Van Alyn, went 
over to the girl and seated himself near her without 
speaking. With her eyes fixed unconsciously on the 
writer’s face, Edith began playing a few faint notes, 
pianissimo, which rose gradually into the great sacra- 
ment motive with which the vorspiel to “Parsifal” 
opens. Instinctively the conversations in the room 
behind were dropped. The music came like a cool 
breath in a burning atmosphere. Eleanor Felton 
watched Stagmar with some curiosity. His head rested 
on one hand. Not a muscle moved, but he drank in 
the notes like a thirsty man. Edith was no artist, and 

54 


MRS. HAMILTON’S 


the music she was playing was difficult, but she loved 
the keys as she touched them, and thus made her 
phrases felt. The motives of sacrament and agony, 
with their rippling accompaniment, died away. The 
faith began, grew, led up into a glorious crescendo, 
and receded as it had come. The mighty Grail 
followed, and then the weird minor intervals that wail 
out the story of Kundry’s terrible laugh. 

The vorspiel finished, Edith did not stop immedi- 
ately, but went on into the processional of the Holy 
Grail, its swaying rhythm marked by the deep inton- 
ing of bells. Afterward came the three choruses of 
boys’ voices, which could not be finished on a piano, 
and lastly a mere suggestion of the caress motive 
from the second act. With this the music ceased, 
and her only applause was the deep sigh from her 
auditors. No one, even then, seemed to care to talk, 
and in a moment or two Stagmar rose and stood 
before his hostess with his good evening on his lips. 

His departure broke up the company. Indeed, 
most of them were sufficiently glad of the signal. 
Eleanor Felton held out her hand to the author as 
they met in the hall. “Come and see me,” she said 
in a low voice, and rejoiced at his “Thank you, if I 
may. ” 

“Coming down to All Sinners’ now?” inquired 
Kent, as he left the dressing-room with Stagmar. 

“The club to-night? No, I think not. Family 
man, you know, Jim.” 

“By the way, Herbert, do you think that it was 
pure, unadulterated wisdom introducing your niece 
to-night as you did?” 


55 


A SOCIAL LION 


The other raised his brows and his shoulders. 
Though his mouth formed no words, his gesture did. 
The doctor was cut, and turned away without speaking 
again. The next instant, however, there was a hand 
on his shoulder, and a voice in his ear. 

“You made Titus Emollitus squirm to-night, Jim. 
Be merciful to him henceforth if you can, and watch 
him work out his own ruin. Good night.” 

Kent laughed, and after calling out another invi- 
tation to their club, went back to send his ladies 
home. Stagmar, with a mixture of feelings, jumped 
into the brougham, and immediately began to wonder 
why he had not consented to go to the club. “Jim 
holds some great stakes in his hands,” he thought 
musingly, “and they could easily be lost if he forgot 
himself for an hour.” 

Ah! Herbert Stagmar! when were you ever before 
afraid of the word of any man against you? James 
Kent has held that secret well during the eighteen 
years of your married life. Are you afraid to trust 
him one night more? 

As Mrs. Hamilton, together with her spouse, 
ascended her carved staircase that night for the last 
time, she remarked, wearily: “I have given many 
dinners, Augustus, but I hope to heaven that it may 
never fall to our lot to give such another.” 

“But what was the trouble with it?” queried 
Augustus slowly. 

And Mrs. Hamilton, looking at him heavily, shook 
her head. 


56 


CHAPTER IV 


ALL SINNERS’ FROM TWELVE TO FOUR 

All Sinners’ was the most exclusive club in the 
city. Were it only as difficult for one of us poor souls 
to become a sinner as it was for those faulty children 
of leisure who craved entrance to that miniature 
Sodom of luxurious fashion to obtain admission 
thereunto, what a heavenly place the world would 
become! And also, if these heavily draped walls, 
soft-rugged, brightly lighted passageways, arm- 
chaired reading-rooms (so-called), and exquisitely 
decorated suites of private apartments, resemble in 
any way the abodes in the infernal city far underfoot, 
I should not be wrong in observing that many a man 
would be content to choose them instead of the airier 
and less frequented mansions lying somewhere above 
the blue vault where the sun rides. Enough of fri- 
volities. Our business here is with a group of very 
interesting gentlemen. 

Horace Chatsworth, Robert Courtenay, and Mal- 
colm Van Alyn were seated around a card-table in 
one of the private rooms of the club — the room 
which, from the result of long usage, was regarded as 
Courtenay’s own. It was scarcely midnight, and the 
trio had not yet settled down to their night’s amuse- 
ment. Instead each was lolling negligently back in 

57 


A SOCIAL LION 


a deep arm-chair, a patch of gray ashes already 
deposited in his little silver tray on the table corner. 
An ice pail, containing two empty champagne bottles 
and a third half-filled one, stood beneath the table, 
on top of which were three broad-bowled glasses con- 
taining each a greater or lesser quantity of Pommery 
Sec. A pack of new cards lay scattered over the 
floor, just as Van Alyn had flung them in his disgust 
at not being able to accomplish a new trick. 

Courtenay looked bored, Malcolm sleepy, Chats- 
worth tranquil. It was the artist who finally broke 
the monotony. 

“Dinner’s long, isn’t it? Want sixteen minutes to 
twelve only.’’ 

“Old lady Hamilton’s dinners always are long — 
damned long. I thought I should suffocate, or 
choke, or die at her last one,’’ growled young Van 
Alyn. 

“Don’t become violent, dear boy. Your collar’ll 
melt, and it’s excessively bad form. Come and match 
pennies till the doctor arrives,’’ drawled his brother- 
in-law in an irritating voice. 

“The doctor!’’ echoed Van Alyn. “Is he what 
we’re waiting for? Do you intend to play whist till 
morning? We want five, and I’d swear that there isn’t 
a fifth hand left in the club.’’ 

“It is late,’’ observed Courtenay yawning, and 
then sending a cloud of feathery smoke from his nos- 
trils, a process always irritating to Malcolm. “We’ll 
play hearts.’’ 

The younger one simply shrugged his shoulders as 
Chatsworth remarked: “Herbert Stagmar will come 
58 


ALL SINNERS’ 


with him. He went to dine with Papa Augustus also — 
didn’t he?” 

“There’s no counting on Stagmar. He’s just as 
likely to go off on one of his night prowls and drop 
in here at daylight for a brandy and soda as to come 
with Kent directly.” 

“Queer man, Stagmar. What the devil does he 
do on those tramps of his?” 

“Plays Dickens. Hunts out characters for his 
stories. ” 

“His stories are so darned mixed up lately that 
you can’t wade through ’em,” said Van Alyn, still 
sulky. “I wish he’d quit the impressionist, and — ” 

“There, there, my boy. Save your expoundings 
for the ladies. Ideas on such subjects hurt one’s 
head. ” 

The boy flung a furious look at the smiling Robert, 
and began pacing rapidly up and down the room. 
Chatsworth suddenly took his part, and smoothly 
inquired : 

“By the way, Bobbie, how’s what-do-you-call-’em — 
La Caralita coming on? Are you still doing the 
devoted?” 

Malcolm’s womanish face flushed slightly at this 
bald reference to his brother-in-law’s penchant for 
more women than one. The Bohemian was not noted 
for his tact. Courtenay shot an eyelid glance at Van 
Alyn, before he answered, with concealed annoyance: 

“I haven’t seen her for four days. She has 
removed to such an impossible locality; cross between 
an apartment and a tenement, I believe. She has 
Fifine and the boy with her. The stage won’t see her 

59 


A SOCIAL LION 


for six months, and meantime she is doing the econ- 
omy act. I ought to visit her soon, though; she’ll 
be utterly dropped, of course.” 

“You’re growing constant, Bob,” said Malcolm, 
with a strained laugh. 

“Merely rather sorry for her,” returned the other, 
indifferently, lighting another cigarette, and wishing 
to drop the subject. Malcolm, however, was curious. 

“I say, Bob,” he asked, “does Snippington still — ” 

“Doctor Kent, gentlemen,” interrupted a servant, 
who then stood aside. 

Malcolm turned eagerly, and the others rose as the 
little man trotted into the room, throwing his hat and 
gloves into a chair and allowing the footman to 
remove his topcoat and bear the other things away. 
Doctor Jim was chuckling with merriment as he drew 
up a chair for himself, lighted a cigar, and waved 
away the champagne offered to him. 

“Well, old boy, what is it? You can’t keep it, 
you know,” queried Courtenay, in amusement. 

“But I say, isn’t Stagmar coming,” insisted Mal- 
colm, still bent upon poker, for Malcolm was young. 

“No, my boy, Herbert will not be here. And 
thereby also hangs a tale. In fact, Stagmar, having 
become a family man, no longer thinks it becoming in 
him to frequent the old place. How’s that, Bob, for 
a dig at us?” 

“What do you mean?” cried the artist, and Cour- 
tenay’s brows went up as far as they would go. 

“What I say. Oh, Stagmar’s a fool! He has a 
niece, it seems” (here Kent became perfectly serious), 
“whom he has just adopted. Nice girl, no doubt, and 

60 


ALL SINNERS’ 


fresh from school. Orphan, of course. Good of 
Bertie, and all that, but the idiot announced her 
arrival at the table to-night, and you know how 
that lot received it. A sarcastic smile and a grunt or 
two from the men, a feeble remark here and there 
from the ladies, and the matter dropped. Herbert 
was a bit sore, I think, but he said nothing.” 

“Oh, we comprehend the construction most prob- 
ably put upon it by our dear relatives,” remarked 
Courtenay, coolly, adding as an afterthought, “What 
is the young lady’s name?” 

Kent was put out for a moment, and he peered 
closely into the other’s face. There was nothing to 
be found in that blas£ vacancy, however, for Robert 
had a pretty talent for keeping his impressions to him- 
self. But Kent was an old dog. His answer was 
careless: 

“’Pon my word, I’ve forgotten. It wasn’t Stag- 
mar, though. But let that go. I’ve a bottle full of 
gossip here that will be more to your taste than the 
Pommery there. Most curious dinner I ever attended. ” 

Thereupon the doctor proceeded to recount in a 
lively manner the story of the minister’s confusion and 
the matter of the toasts, which for Stagmar’s sake he 
colored rather differently than the truth. The tale 
was poured into interested minds, for Snippington was 
no favorite among these men, except as the facts of 
his confusion pleased them. 

After a somewhat wandering conversation, the sub- 
ject of cards was again introduced. 

“Hearts or whist, doctor?” inquired Courtenay, 
mockingly. 

61 


A SOCIAL LION 


Kent looked at him calmly. “Hearts,” he 
answered, without apparently noticing Malcolm’s 
anxiety. “Hearts be it. What stakes?” 

Instantly the other two looked at Chatsworth, who 
was Courtenay’s guest for the night. It was rather a 
mean thing to do, for the artist was not well off, and 
his pride would hardly permit him to name an amount 
lower than that usually understood. He took it well, 
however, saying, indifferently, “Dollar a heart, isn’t 
it?” 

“Five hundred to start, then,” cried Malcolm, 
pulling out the chips, and the game began. 

The first hand had been dealt, and the cards 
sorted. Chatsworth was pleased, Malcolm in despair 
over a suit of eight clubs, and the other two indiffer- 
ent. The first card had not yet been thrown when 
there was a sound of voices in the passage. A clamor 
of expostulation and explanation; then one decided 
voice rose above the rest. “No, really impossible. 
Many thanks. Another time, certainly. If their 
game is made up I shall not play at all. See you 
later, my dear fellows.” 

Then, without announcement, Stagmar hastily 
entered and closed the door in the faces of the numer- 
ous hangers-on and sycophants by whom he was gen- 
erally surrounded. At sight of him the four men 
looked up in surprise, and Malcolm with an air of 
decision threw down his cards and pushed his chair 
back. Stagmar nodded at them all, threw himself 
into a chair, got out a well-browned meerschaum, 
and with a “You don’t mind?” settled back and began 
puffing contentedly. He did not appear to notice 

62 


ALL SINNERS* 


that the play was not continued, until Kent called 
out to him : 

“Here you, Herbert, come and take a hand. We’ve 
been waiting for you for the last half hour, and 
haven’t played a card yet.’’ 

The three others eagerly corroborated this as Stag- 
mar looked inquiringly around at Kent, and after a 
moment or two of resistance, he went into the game. 

Stakes were high, and from the outset the hands 
were good. Silence very soon fell over the party, and 
only the growing eagerness of their eyes and the ner- 
vous twitching of their hands told of the strain that 
all but one were under. At two o’clock Malcolm, 
rising and stumbling over a fresh ice-pail, flung his 
coat and tie to the floor. The doctor, who was stout, 
and Chatsworth, who was poor, followed his example. 
Stagmar and Courtenay stood it for twenty minutes 
longer, until their collars had become wet rags. Van 
Alyn was losing heavily, and the pile of chips before 
the artist grew, until he began to bid madly upon 
mere vestiges of hands. The three older men played 
warily, and lost lightly, but the game lay between 
the two. Malcolm won two or three times upon badly 
carried bluffs of Chatsworth’s. He grew encouraged. 
The artist breathed heavily, emptied his glass, and 
found his mouth still dry. There came a hand when 
Kent, Courtenay, and Stagmar went out after the 
draw. Chatsworth compressed his lips, and threw 
his head back with an unreadable desperation in his 
eyes. The young, boyish face across the table was 
hectic-flushed, the musical voice high and strained. 

“Five!” “Take it and raise two. ’’ “Right, and five 
63 


A SOCIAL LION 


better.” ‘‘In, and four more. ” ‘‘Take it, and raise you 

ten.” “D it! Fifteen more !” So came the cries, 

faster and faster and more incoherently. The elder 
men looked on with interest, Stagmar with a dis- 
gusted sensation at heart. But it was a scene that 
had long since lost its novelty. The chips rained 
upon the table. Each man stuck to his colors. Mal- 
colm wildly raised the bids until fourteen hundred 
dollars lay upon the table, and half of them were 
borrowed. Then Kent interposed. “Not much 
higher, boys,” he ventured. Van Alyn looked around 
angrily, but in another second came the hoarse whis- 
per of the artist, ‘‘I call.” Then he bent double, 
staring at the cards which were flung to the table — 
four kings. Not a word passed his lips as he quietly 
laid down four knaves, and rose, passed his hands 
over his eyes, emptied a bottle into his glass, drank 
it off, and reseated himself. ‘‘Doctor, it’s your deal,” 
he said. 

Stagmar looked at him with admiration and sorrow 

both in his eyes. ‘‘By , Horace, I’m sorry,” 

came in a murmur from Courtenay. Malcolm having 
drained a glass of whisky and soda, held out his shak- 
ing hand over the table. ‘‘Yours next time, old 
chap,” he said, as Chatsworth took it. And then the 
doctor slowly dealt the cards. 

The next pot went to Robert, then two to Stag- 
mar, once each to Van Alyn and the doctor, and 
continually the artist lost. Again and again a handful 
of those celluloid disks left his hand, and he arranged 
a month’s diet of bread and water to pay for all, but 
he would not stop the game. In a moment or two 

6 4 


ALL* SINNERS’ 


more he won — won just enough to keep him afloat for 
ten minutes longer. Then the old luck returned. 
More chips were borrowed, and money — from Stag- 
mar. 

The clocks had chimed five, and the lights were 
dim and blurred to their weary eyes when the men 
finally rose. Chatsworth’s face looked old, and as 
gray as putty; his hands hung limply at his sides; and 
his ears rang with the clink of the coin that was no 
longer his own, with the clink of glasses now empty 
and foul, with the laughter that would come from the 
lips of men when his poverty and the cause of it 
should be made known. Then with fingers with which 
he could scarcely feel he wrote out his I. O. U. *s, 
four of them — bits of white paper that represented his 
all. Finally, with a nod and a brave, broken smile he 
was gone, Courtenay’s guest, who had enjoyed the 
honor of a night at All Sinners’ in company with 
four of the city’s most envied men. 

After his departure the four men who remained in 
the deadened atmosphere of that room stood or sat 
for a few moments in silence. None wished to go 
without expressing his feeling over the end of the 
game, and yet each hesitated to speak the first word. 
It was Stagmar who finally lifted his head, and said 
in a low tone, at the same time drawing a roll of green 
paper from his pocket: 

“Gentlemen, I should like to purchase Chats- 
worth’s notes from you. Courtenay, yours was five 
hundred, Kent three — let me count those out first. 
Thank you. Now, Malcolm — ’’ 

Courtenay and the doctor had somewhat reluc- 
65 


A SOCIAL LION 


tantly accepted the money offered them. Malcolm, as 
his name was mentioned, flushed crimson, took the 
paper bearing the artist’s signature from his pocket, 
and with a muttered “Poor devil!’’ tore it into small 
pieces, which he scattered over the floor. 

Stagmar laid his hand lightly on young Van Alyn’s 
shoulder, and then with an au revoir to the others 
hastily left the building, followed immediately by the 
boy. 

Kent and his host remained. “Rather too bad — ’’ 
muttered Kent, in his deep voice, as he rang for his 
coat. But Courtenay, rising, said lightly, with a deli- 
cate shrug of his graceful shoulders: 

“Pshaw, Kent! We’re too old to be romantic, you 
and I. You have a wife, you know, and bad bills, and 
I have my little expenses also, Jim. Oh, most men 
have expenses, you will find, if you look care- 
fully through the world! My little brother-in-law is 
still young, and also still under the pleasant shadow 
of papa’s golden wing, while I, if I remember cor- 
rectly, have been of age for several years.’’ 

So they parted, Kent with a gruff laugh, and 
Robert with his clear eyes half-humorously averted. 

Meantime Stagmar, who had not taken a cab, was 
shivering slightly in his top hat, black cape coat and 
patent leathers, as he made his way rapidly home- 
ward. He missed the comfort of the old cap and 
ulster to which he was accustomed on these rambles. 
It was a bitter dawn, for a marrow-piercing mist blew 
in from the lake by a boisterous northeaster, to filter 
coldly through the flesh of the careless or homeless 
one who wandered through the still dark streets. 

66 


ALL SINNERS’ 


Occasionally a policeman, who happened to be awake, 
stepped out of the gloom a few feet away and peered 
anxiously after the solitary walker, curious when 
perceiving that a gentleman of his class and dress 
still held his gait at this hour. 

Stagmar took no note of any of these. He was 
thinking on a subject over which he had pondered 
before, often and fruitlessly. How were such scenes 
as that at which he had virtually assisted to-night to 
be averted? Thousands of such dramas were enacted 
nightly in this one city alone — ay, and filthier ones. 
Old men were driven mad, and young ones shown life- 
long ruin, and none to blame and none to hold. It 
was pitiful — men were pitiless, shameless, blameless. 
The writer, with a bitter scorn, thought of the creeds 
of men. God made them weak that they might fall, 
gave them temptations so great that they must fall — 
and then, God bade them not fall! Where was the 
God of men? In these dens of sorrow, men are told. 
Yet He looks on at such scenes continually and raises 
not His hand. The Deity is superhuman, Stagmar 
was not, therefore he mourned over his race, and 
denied God. The writer could not count on his 
fingers the men he had hauled back from ruin — once, 
twice, thrice, perhaps. It cost money, which he was 
glad to give, and it was seldom in the end efficacious, 
but what more could he do? This young Chatsworth 
he would try to help. That was a relief. And then 
the man’s thoughts turned toward the woman whom, 
of all the world, he could not forgive. Men he 
loved in the abstract, and their faults with them, 
but this woman, his wife, he had loved — oh, how 

67 


A SOCIAL LION 


tenderly! in the individual, and therein lay all the 
difference. 

So musing as he hurried, Stagmar at length reached 
home, and let himself into the silent house softly. 
On his way to his room he passed his daughter’s apart- 
ment, and by the door he stopped to listen, with a 
pleasant warmth creeping into his heart. “She is 
asleep,” he smiled to himself, and passed on. 

Half an hour later he was in his study, freshly 
dressed, with his eyes clear and his head steady — 
rather more than could be said for his companions of 
the night. He looked around the fine room with a 
glance of content. His study was his friend, his 
books his intimates, his desk his refuge. It was to 
his desk that he went immediately, and laying before 
him three pieces of paper which he had brought down 
with him, he seated himself and began a letter. 

“Chicago, November the Fifth, 189 — . 
“My Dear Chatsworth: 

“ In the old days when I was starting out in life, and a pre- 
carious business it was, your father was the first and the best 
friend that I possessed. He lifted me over a good many bad 
places in the road, and it was by his good sense that I 
escaped many a folly that might have ruined me. It was a 
great sorrow to me, my dear boy, when he passed away from 
us; and his regret was that he couldn’t be with you longer. 
Now I have finished with sentimentalizing, but I wanted you to 
know why I am interfering with your affairs. It is for the sake 
of what he was to me. 

“ I enclose in this letter three of the notes that you signed 
to-night. The fourth, Malcolm’s, the boy himself tore up. 
These three, however hard it may be for you, you must accept. 
It’s your punishment for having been vain enough to do what 
you couldn’t afford to do. I’m talking plainly, you see. You 

68 


ALL SINNERS’ 


had no business to go to that club with Robert Courtenay. 
You know what he is, and you ought to realize that his sphere 
isn’t yours, and to thank your Fates that it isn’t. All Sinners’ 
is a long road to Hell for the rich, but it is too short a one for a 
poor man to venture upon. Henceforth keep off of it, Horace. 

“ Now I want something from you. Possibly you already 
know that I have adopted a niece. She is young, and I expect 
her to be a trifle lonely for a time in her new home. Any- 
thing that will be likely to distract her attention from herself 
I am trying to obtain. You have a pretty talent for pretty pic- 
tures. Send me one for her. She is rather an ardent church 
member I fancy, so if you have anything in a religious way, 
small Madonna or Magdalene or angel, you know the style, 
send it to us, and come and help me hang it. 

“ Remember my admonitions, and don’t feel hurt over 
them. I shouldn’t say anything to young Van Alyn about his 
note. If one of his class can be made to feel some remorse for 
pocketing another man’s money, . . . encourage him in it all 
you can. That is rather a nice boy, it has struck me. Pity 
he’s going to the dogs. I want to see you soon. You must 
know Miss Howard. Now fare thee well my dear boy. Don’t 
bear malice, and commit no more follies. 

“Always your sincere friend, 

“Herbert Stagmar.” 


69 


CHAPTER V 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 

When her father paused outside her door that early 
November morning, Joan had not been asleep, but 
rather in that state of sensible torpor which leads by 
slow and delicious degrees to the disagreeable moment 
when we open our eyes widely upon the morning. 
Joan sat up with a start and looked vacantly around. 
It was her customary hour for rising, and she had 
been true to her principles, even though the convent 
bell had, for the first time within her memory, failed to 
sound for her. It was scarcely light yet, and the 
objects in her room looked misty and unnatural to 
her eyes, accustomed to the crudest and squarest 
articles of necessity. 

Changes, even for the better, present themselves 
for the first time with a very unbeautiful aspect to the 
human mind. Joan was no exception to the rule, 
and her fair face looked dreary, indeed, as she stepped 
slowly out of her great bed. Where was the excited 
anticipation of yesterday? Why, I wonder, do these 
heart-oppressing mornings ever come after the nights 
of oblivion! Mornings? Only misers, machines, and 
birds ever like mornings. 

Joan dressed hastily, though with perfect neatness, 
as she had been taught to do. Morning prayers gen- 

70 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


erally took more time than the morning toilet. The 
girl frowned a little as she shook out the somber little 
dress which was all she had to don. Although she 
had never worn one, she knew intuitively how much 
better such dresses as she could imagine would suit 
her than the little unrelieved black garment which 
wrinkled so despicably up the back. She realized, as 
well as those who judged her beauty better than she, 
that she had the innate genius of wearing clothes 
becomingly; and she suffered acute mortification as 
she thought of the way in which her father’s steely 
eyes might possibly travel over her present costume. 
Joan hardly did justice to her father at this early 
hour. 

Presently she knelt to pray before her Madonna, 
with the eyes of a soul, and here, as those passionate 
Catholic prayers poured from her lips, a sudden revul- 
sion of feeling came over her. For a moment she 
sank to the floor, forgot the dread of her past month, 
shut her tear-heavy eyes, breathed the orange-blossom 
air, heard the clear peal of the silver-toned bell, saw 
the red-gold of the dawn “at home,” and then, with 
the chords of her throat strained tight, went slowly 
down the stairs to find her father at his task. 

She met no one on her way, but remembering how 
she had come, found the study door without difficulty. 
Hesitating a moment, she laid one finger on the pol- 
ished wood, and then, without knocking, because she 
had never been taught to knock at any door, quietly 
entered the room. Stagmar had not heard her, and 
she stopped still, looking at him with curiosity. He 
stood beside his desk, his face turned from her, his 

7 1 


A SOCIAL LION 


eyes fixed upon a photograph. Joan started slightly 
as she saw and recognized the picture. For fully a 
minute they remained so, and the girl was trying to 
find courage to speak, when suddenly Stagmar 
stepped back, exclaiming aloud: 

“Oh, Bob! Bob! when and for what did you sell 
your soul, or did you lose it by the way?” It was a 
little relic of past Christianity, this speaking of souls. 

“Father!” The exclamation was involuntary, 



to his daughter. Stagmar turned instantly, with 
astonishment in his face. Seeing her almost fright- 
ened amazement, however, he laughed a little as he 
came toward her. 

“I had no idea of your presence, my dear,” he 
said, kindly. “Naturally my remark sounded oddly 
enough to you. I think aloud sometimes when I am 
alone. It is a bad habit. Come, sit down here, and 
let us talk a little. You rested well, I trust?” 

Joan thanked him, and seated herself uncomfort- 
ably. She could not overcome a feeling of awkward- 
ness before him, which he saw to his amusement. He 
perceived this morning a strong resemblance in her to 
her mother, but where it lay except in the color of her 
hair he did not know. He noted also the quaint 
gaucherie of her dress, but his eyes were by no means 
steely as he looked at her quietly, waiting for the 
words which came hesitating from her lips: 

“You must have given a great deal of thought to 
my room,” she said at last, slowly and thoughtfully, 
adding a moment later, “I never have seen anything 
so lovely.” 


72 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


The somewhat bald phrase was softened by the 
hesitation and musical quietness of her voice. Stag- 
mar was pleased. ‘‘I am glad you found it pleasant, 
Joan. It has been a great pleasure to me to have an 
interest in some one again.” 

“Again?” Joan had forgotten her nervousness. 

“Your mother, you know,” replied Stagmar, 
coughing. 

The girl looked up at him suddenly, with a light 
in her face. “Please tell me about her,” she said, 
imperiously. 

The writer was not surprised. He had been ex- 
pecting the question. 

“I can’t tell you very much of her,” he said, 
gravely. “She was not a very good woman, and she 
preferred other things to me. We have not lived 
together for many years now, and we see each other 
only at long intervals. It is as well that the subject 
has come up at once, for I have something to say that 
may prove painful to you. There are circumstances 
connected with the story which justify this deed in a 
measure, but the details of those matters we shall not 
go into.” He paused for a moment, looking steadily 
into the girl’s widely open eyes. “The society of 
which I am a member now never knew your mother, 
for we found it convenient to separate many years ago, 
shortly after you were born, in fact. So that when I 
began to be recognized by all these people I was 
alone, and it was impossible for me to speak of your 
mother and of you. I could not see then how things 
would eventually come about. Therefore, Joan, now 
that you have come home to me you will be known to 

73 


A SOCIAL LION 


my friends not as my daughter, but as my niece, Miss 
Howard. ” 

To the last his tone was perfectly steady, and he 
seemed not to be looking at her, though in reality he 
studied her face intently. He felt it to be a disagree- 
able — nay, more than that, a miserable thing to say; 
for he could not tell her that he had never believed 
her his own child, and without that fact the story 
seemed cowardly enough. He waited anxiously for 
her to speak. Indeed, an she chose, my lady could 
make things very awkward. 

At her father’s words Joan rose suddenly, and 
then reseated herself. The angry blood stormed into 
her face, then left it again as pallid as before. 
When she could gain control of her voice, she said, 
thickly: 

“Why did you send for me to be a dishonor to you 
and to myself?” 

“Were you happy in the convent, then?” he asked, 
conscience-stricken. 

“No,” she answered, with a sudden memory of her 
recent despair. “I wasn’t happy — but I was not 
ashamed. ” 

“Must you take it so, Joan? There is no shame 
about it. I wish that I could explain — no. That 
would do no good. So. I have told many of my 
friends already that my sister’s daughter has been 
adopted by me, having just finished school. Now I 
will go to them and tell them that that was a slight 
mistake, that she is my daughter. That will be nearer 
the truth, and will, as you may perceive, materially 
alter the aspect of the case. We shall be instantly 
74 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


dropped, and shall have plenty of time on our hands 
for contemplation. Will that do, my dear?” Despite 
the sarcasm of his tone, Joan saw the reason of what 
he said, and replied instantly: 

“Oh, no! that would be worse, of course. Being 
here I suppose I must accept the consequences and 
stay. Please do not think that I don’t see your diffi- 
culty. I do, quite, only — ” the next words distinctly, 
“I am afraid that I have not quite so much admiration 
for my famous father as I had before I left the con- 
vent into which I was put to be got out of the way.” 

Joan Howard had risen, and stood looking over at 
the bent figure yonder in the great leathern chair — 
Herbert Stagmar, the envied of millions, with his head 
in his hand, and his pride in the keeping of this child 
before him. Ah! the sin of Eve was visited upon 
Adam and his children, and his own folly returned 
to him increased a hundred fold. 

Joan was astounded and deeply hurt, also very 
angry. This private history of her family was grow- 
ing more seriously complicated than she had imag- 
ined it could be. Still her father — the man who sat 
over there — had called himself her father. He had 
been kind about it all, too. Would it better matters 
for her to be injured and unrelenting, like the Mother 
Abbess, when she had stolen half a dozen of the ripest 
i peaches from the mother’s favorite tree? Joan had 
a good deal of ordinary common-sense in her nature, 
and was at times happily prone to use it in lieu of cer- 
tain finer but more unmanageable sentiments. Also, 
for her limited experience, she had rather a shrewd 
i idea of human frailties. Therefore, after battling 

75 


A SOCIAL LION 


with her wrath for the space of three minutes, during 
which the man had not moved, she went closer, and 
stood just in front of him, watching how the light 
glinted over his brown hair and on the edge of his 
marble forehead. Then she said, sweetly: 

“Uncle — I will be tractable now.” 

Stagmar looked up, startled. “I’m your father, 
not your uncle,” he exclaimed impulsively. Then, 
after a little pause, during which the girl looked at 
him curiously, he said with an evident effort: 

“Reserve the. ‘uncle’ for others, not for me. And 
you have been tractable enough. Good God, Joan! 
don’t think that I don’t credit you with a mind of 
your own. You owe no gratitude to Helen Howard 
and me for having brought you to earth. It is a poor 
place in the world that we have given you so far, and 
now I am adding another humiliation to the rest. In 
the world it’s each man for himself, and truly you 
don’t find much generosity in others, even of the near- 
est. In the old days I loved your mother — with a 
fool’s love. Now I will give you what is mine to give. 
I can make puppets bow to you, I can give you stones 
and brilliant bits of cloth to make you shine before 
them all, and possibly win you a husband who will 
continue these blessings when I am gone into Night. 
Poof! what nonsense all this is. The room is hot. 
Come. Sit down here beside my desk, and we will be 
sensible, and talk over the arrangements for your 
winter. You have been very charitable to me, my 
dear. I thank you for it.” 

So the girl seated herself near her father, liking 
him well now, for he was ,a fascinating man in every 

76 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


way; and they talked quietly together until breakfast 
was announced. Nevertheless, they were too much 
alike to have become perfectly acquainted in one hour. 

Mrs. Van Alyn was very good. It was but the 
third afternoon of Joan’s first city week when she and 
her daughter, Mrs. Robert Courtenay, stopped their 
coupe before Stagmar’s residence. Awkwardly 
enough for the convent-bred girl, her father was not 
in, and the call fell upon her own shoulders to sustain. 
Joan took the bits of pasteboard curiously, and with 
unconscious etiquette informed Carson that she would 
be down immediately. Stagmar had told her of the 
possibility of this lady’s coming, also of her social 
position, and the girl did not think of refusing to see 
her. Nevertheless, her feet bore her very reluctantly 
down the broad stairs, and her hands grew cold and 
rather moist at the prospective ordeal of meeting two 
strange people, about whose ways of life she knew so 
little and was expected to know so much. 

Mrs. Van Alyn was curious to see “Herbert’s niece,’’ 
as she called Miss Howard. The old lady was a firm 
friend of the author’s, and did not permit herself to 
think of the glances, hints, and eyebrow shrugs that 
had been given upon the subject by certain people. 
Now these things were to be stopped, for where 
Mrs. Van Alyn called, others made all speed to fol- 
low. She had told her daughter where they were to 
go, and her daughter had mildly assented. Marie 
Van Alyn Courtenay was a very mild person in every 
way. She had married her husband because he had 
proposed to her, and because he had rather nice eyes, 
she thought. She rarely annoyed any one, never had 

77 


A SOCIAL LION 


an opinion of her own, and had been known to show 
some little talent in avoiding unpleasant subjects. 
She dressed faultlessly, and had no children. 

The two ladies sat in the drawing-room, waiting. 
Mrs. Van Alyn expected the arrival of a small blonde 
girl, awkward beyond measure, and extremely shy. 
Her daughter was not thinking of their prospective 
hostess. She had nearly decided that the turquoise 
vase looked more effective in front of the peacock 


brocaded hanging than where it had formerly stood 




on the teak-wood stand. There was a light step in 
the hall, and a strong white hand pushed back the 
portiere before the door. Joan entered the room, 
pale as usual, quiet, a little questioning smile upon 
her lips, her gray eyes regarding the ladies seriously. 
Mrs. Courtenay saw her mother rise, with some aston- 
ishment. Mrs. Van Alyn was not accustomed to rise 
for a young lady. Mrs. Robert stood beside the elder 
woman, bowed gracefully, and said something in a mur- 
muring voice as Joan looked from one to the other in 
slight embarrassment. 

“I am very glad indeed to see you. My uncle told 
me that you might perhaps come. It is very kind of 
you,” she said, hesitatingly. 

“It was no kindness, my dear, but a pleasure 
to me. Your uncle is my great friend, and I am but 
too happy to be the first to welcome his niece,” 
responded Mrs. Van Alyn, graciously, and then the 
three were seated. 

“This is a most charming afternoon for calls, Miss 
Howard. It is so charming to be having our Indian 
summer after all. I am hoping that we shall have 

78 




“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 

several days of it. We were planning a drive to the 
Saddle and Cycle on Malcolm’s drag if it lasts. They 
give charming dinners there. Were you at the the- 
ater last night? Sothern, you know. So charming!” 
Mrs. Courtenay paused, looking at Joan with her 
small head a little on one side, her most charming 
smile just curving her lips. She was pleased with the 
young girl, and thought her red hair — fascinating. 

Joan was slightly amused. Was this a society 
woman, she wondered. To be sure she was lovely to 
look at, in her heavy, dove-gray silk, with its blue- 
green velvet and Irish lace, with the fluffy cape over 
her shoulders, and the infinitesimal bonnet-hat upon 
1 her daintily waved brown hair. Her little face was 
delicately cared for, her tiny brows prettily arched, 

1 and her forehead about as intellectual as her white 
’ lap dog’s. But Joan had read that it was very diffi- 
; cult to be successful in society, and she felt slightly 
1 perplexed at this, its exponent. She was saved the 
1 trouble of answering the complex speech by a calm 
question from Mrs. Van Alyn, who was displeased 
*' with her daughter. 

0 “Are you fond of riding and driving, Miss How- 
ard?” 

irl The girl’s mind flew instantly back to the rare, 
lU free gallops that had been hers down that valley at 
' home, through the nearest winding trails, or up, up 
H the mountain-side, so high that her very soul cried out 
in triumph and stretched out its wings toward the 
is faint blue of the distant Pacific that glittered laugh- 
kingly at her through seventy miles of heaven’s pure 
lV | air. Therefore Joan’s reply was brief, and her ready 

79 


A SOCIAL LION 


smile a little misted, but Mrs. Courtenay did not 
notice it. 

“I suppose you rode sometimes, even at school, 
Miss Howard?” 

“Sometimes, Mrs. Courtenay, yes.” 

“Mamma, we must take Miss Howard with us the 
next time Malcolm goes. I’m quite sure you would 
like the drag. It’s so much more comfortable than 
most of them. Usually the backs of the seats are too 
low, and stick into one’s spine, and the springs are 
frightful. But his is really a charming turnout.” 

Joan smiled and thanked her. She was losing her 
diffidence. Mrs. Van Alyn was pleased. Now, how- 
ever, there came a pause in the fitful conversation. 
The elder lady was lost in contemplation of the young 
girl, and forgot to introduce a topic. Mrs. Courtenay 
felt her duty done in obtaining a new recruit for her 
brother’s four-in-hand, and was examining a distant 
picture through a small, gold-mounted monocle; and 
poor Joan, feeling that she must speak, yet failing to 
conjure up anything rational to say, sat opening and 
shutting one cold hand miserably, and wondering how 
long her visitors would stay. It came as a great relief 
to her, and a desired pleasure to the others, when 
Carson at the door announced : 

“Mr. Chatsworth and Mr. Stagmar. ” 

Herbert and the artist had come in together, and 
made their way instantly to the drawing-room. The 
author had been disturbed at perceiving Mrs. Van 
Alyn’s brougham at his door. He was anxious to 
know how Joan had managed without him. Horace 
had expostulated at the idea of meeting the ladies, 

80 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


but Stagmar would not hear of his hiding himself, 
and, so, perforce, with a rueful frown, the Bohemian 
submitted. Horace was not fond of tea and iced 
gossip at five in the afternoon, but there were not 
many things that he would have refused his friend 
just now, and besides that, like all the world, he was 
intensely curious to see Joan Howard. 

“My dear Herbert, how do you do? So glad that 
we caught you. ” 

Mrs. Courtenay smiled sweetly at the artist, and 
murmured her greetings to both gentlemen. Horace 
was presented to Joan, and immediately began talk- 
ing to Mrs. Robert, while covertly examining the girl. 
Tea was brought and served elaborately by Carson, 
who was used to it, thus relieving Joan. She looked 
on in mild astonishment at the slices of lemon which 
went into each cup, and finally tasted the weak, warm, 
fashionable decoction with something akin to disgust. 
Was her father trying to economize on cream? The 
smile which rose at this thought was none the less 
puzzled, however. Stagmar watched her lips pucker 
and her eyes twinkle as she listened to the inanities 
which were being eyed out by the two beside her. 
Chatsworth was enjoying himself greatly and some- 
what impolitely at the expense of the pretty little 
creature, who thought him wonderfully amiable. Mrs. 
Van Alyn talked quietly to Stagmar of his niece, and 
expressed so favorable an opinion in regard to her that 
the writer was highly pleased. 

The call did not last much longer. Mrs. Van Alyn 
rose, putting down her cup and apologizing for a very 
long stay. “Really, you must forgive us. We have 

81 


A SOCIAL LION 


taken up half the afternoon. Marie, my dear, — Miss 
Howard, I am so glad to have seen you. Your uncle 
must bring you to us very soon.” 

“Good-by, Mr. Chatsworth; so awfully glad to 
have met you. Will you be at the Armand’s to-night? 
Oh! so sorry! Mr. Stagmar, mamma has appropriated 
you so entirely that I am quite neglected. Au revoir , 
dear Miss Howard. You must certainly come with 
us on our next drive. Good-by!” 

A tremendous rustle of silk, supplemented with a 
general murmur of adieu, grew gradually fainter in 
the hall outside, and then the outer door closed, and 
the ladies were gone. Joan’s face was still soberly 
astonished, Chatsworth lay in a chair with an expres- 
sion of quixotic relief on his face, and Stagmar came 
back shaking with suppressed laughter. 

“Dear Horace,” he said, in a light, running tone, 
with a perfect imitation of Mrs. Courtenay, “do come 
with me to my study, and, Miss Howard, would you 
not like to accompany us? I am going to unpack a 
picture which has just arrived. Charming, you know. 
You will be delighted with-it, I assure you. Dear 
Horace is so clever! Oh, that is awfully good of 
you!” 

Neither Joan nor the artist could help laughing; 
but the next instant Stagmar sobered completely. 
“Now, that was very rude of me,” he said, half- 
humorously still. “I beg her pardon from here, but 
Mrs. Courtenay always has a peculiar effect upon my 
nerves. I must either laugh or cry when she goes, so 
I choose the least painful method of relief.” 

“Why should you want to cry?” asked Horace, idly. 

82 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


“I might not actually shed tears, but I should be 
forced to reflect what a farce all this that we pride 
ourselves so upon really is,” he answered, in rather a 
dry tone. 

Joan felt more at ease now. Her father and this 
man were sensible, at least. “It all sounds so like a 
modern English novel,” she said, gayly; “I didn’t 
know that people did it in real life.” 

“What novel were you thinking of?” her father 
asked, quietly. 

“ ‘The Green Carnation.’ ” 

Stagmar said no more, but shrugged his shoulders, 
and a little chill fell upon the other two at his evident 
displeasure. 

Upon reaching the study they found the picture, 
which had been unpacked, lying in its folds of tissue 
paper upon a side table. The artist took it up and 
carried it over to the girl. “This is for you, from 
your uncle,” he said. 

“Forme? Oh! how good of him ! Let me see it.” 

Chatsworth removed the paper from his painting 
tenderly, and then held it up before her, watching her 
face anxiously. The picture showed the head and 
bust of a woman. A delicate, oval face, with narrow 
blue eyes, straight, short nose, full lips, and a stream 
of bright yellow hair that fell over her white shoul- 
ders, which were draped in folds of scarlet. The com- 
bination of color was striking, and the expression of 
the face indescribably strange. Joan looked at it for 
several moments, thenasked inalowvoice, “Whoisit?” 

“A picture of Mary Magdalene.” 

“The Magdalene! Oh, surely the Magdalene was 

83 


A SOCIAL LION 


not like this! She was dark, with black hair, and 
great dark eyes, and pale lips, and she looked — not 
like this woman. How could this woman have re* 
pented? She is cold, feelingless, disagreeable. I 
hate the face! I shouldn’t want it near me. Uncle — 
would you want the picture?” 

Stagmar looked at his daughter in astonishment. 
She had spoken her thoughts unconsciously^ Chats- 
worth flushed a little. Then the eyes of both men 
sought the picture again, and when they looked into 
each other’s faces both showed that they had found 
in the features of paint what Joan Howard could not 
put into words. To the artist it had not occurred 
before. 

‘‘I am sorry, Miss Howard,” he said, with his eyes 
on the floor. ‘‘I will set to work to-morrow on the 
face that you have described.” 

Joan started and looked at him in astonishment. 
‘‘Did you paint that picture, Mr. Chatsworth? Oh, 
believe me, I didn’t know it! I am so sorry for what 
I said! I had no idea that you were an artist.” 

Chatsworth smiled, still in a subdued manner. ‘‘I 
owe you nothing but gratitude,” he said. ‘‘Our only 
true criticisms come to us in that way, and they are 
invaluable. I will take the picture back, Stagmar, 
and do another one for Miss Howard.” 

‘‘Do another for Miss Howard, by all means, 
Horace, but leave this one to me. I shall keep it for 
myself. It has an expression — ” He did not finish 
the sentence, but turned hastily about to try the 
painting in a different light, and soon after that the 
artist left the house. 


84 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


The next two weeks passed rapidly, and during 
them nothing happened of any import. Joan How- 
ard had but few moments to herself, for she found 
that her metamorphosis from a country maid to a 
city debutante required everything but solitude. And 
those who had charge of Miss Howard during these 
days found her far more adaptable to their plans and 
ideas than many a girl born and bred to a city life. 
For Joan was as much the daughter of a beautiful 
woman as she was the child of a brilliant man, and 
there was in her a sufficient amount of fascination 
and vanity to have made her an abomination to wom- 
ankind had it not been well tempered by some of her 
own good sense and a large portion of her father’s 
thoughtfulness. As it was, the change in her was 
startling. It was almost impossible to believe that the 
perfectly possessed and graceful woman who could 
make every person in a room turn to look at her as 
she entered, and comment enviously upon the irre- 
proachable simplicity of her perfect clothes, was the 
same Joan Howard who, two weeks before, had 
arrived in the great railway station of Chicago, and 
mistaken a footman for her father! 

Ten days after Mrs. Van Alyn’s call Stagmar sat 
alone in his study, staring up at Chatsworth’s Magda- 
lene, and trying to fix his thoughts on the unfinished 
work before him. Stagmar had not done much work 
of late. That pallid face of the woman had seemed 
continually to stare down upon him, with such malig- 
nant mockery in her narrow eyes that he could not fix 
his mind upon anything else. The glance reminded 
him of his wife in her worst moods, yet held him 

85 


A SOCIAL LION 


spellbound even as she had done, so that he could 
not take the thing down. He was thinking again of 
his folly, of his possible fall in the eyes of the men 
whose admiration formed his object in life. As he 
had told his wife, it had come to be all he had, more 
than ever now that Joan, too, lived for it, as he saw. 
Since his wife’s accident she had been always in his 
mind. The dread of exposure never left him. He 
feared society in these days. Before that rise of his, 
which he sometimes called his fall, he had feared noth- 
ing, living or dead. Now he was fettered, hampered 
on every side by the chains of his own forging. He 
no longer even stood alone. With him, whithersoever 
he went, another, and that other a woman, must go 
with him. He could not acknowledge Helen Howard, 
and neither would nor could he cast her off. With an 
involuntary brush of his hand over his head he seized 
a volume of Ibsen’s plays which lay on his desk and 
began reading at random. He opened the book in 
the middle of the drama “Ghosts.” The bit that he 
had half insensibly begun led into the intense scene 
where Mrs. Alving hears, as a frightful echo of the 
past, the clink of the champagne glasses struck now 
by son and daughter of her dead husband. The words 
struck their reader with an intolerable pain. He 
glanced sharply around toward the picture, but his 
eyes stopped, riveted, before they reached the pallidly 
gleaming face. 

In the doorway before him Stagmar saw his wife. 
She stood with the half-light of deepening afternoon 
about her, her features in shadow, her figure' appear- 
ing thinner than formerly, but still with all her clinging 

86 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


grace about her, and the delicate aroma from her clothes 
paralyzing his senses as of old. She was richly dressed 
in heavy sapphire blue trimmed with white satin and 
fur, and the glowing shades of her hair and her scarlet 
lips contrasted splendidly with the pearly tint of her 
skin. Stagmar leaped to his feet with a shuddering 
cry. His overwrought nerves could no longer be 
forced into quiet. The woman came forward quickly, 
in frightened surprise. In an instant he was back in 
his chair with Joan at his feet. He saw that it was 
not Helen, but even then the shock was not entirely 
dissipated. She was so like! so like! A little tremor 
ran over him, and he sat up with a slight laugh. 

“Don’t be frightened, Joan. I am simply not quite 
myself this afternoon. I haven’t had much sleep 
lately. I’m right enough now. No, don’t [call any 
one; I need nothing.’’ 

“But you are ill, father, and you didn’t tell 
me.’’ 

“I’m not ill, child. There, go now, and make 
your calls. I cannot go with you this afternoon. I 
have two weeks’ unfinished work at hand here. Re- 
member to leave my cards — it is a comfort to have 
some one to do it for me.’’ 

“Ah, father, I wish you wouldn’t. Two weeks’ 
work — why you are here alone for hours every day, 
working. ’’ 

The man shook his head, and muttered almost 
unintelligibly, “I don’t work; that’s it.’’ 

Joan glanced at the clock, and then anxiously back 
at him, but he had caught the glance, and bade her 
go at once. 


87 


A SOCIAL LION 


‘I have the victoria to-day,” she said, hesitatingly. 
“It is beautifully bright. Couldn’t you come — ” 

“No, no. Good-by, and pleasant drive, my dear. 
Fifteen minutes only at Mrs. Van Alyn’s, you know. 
And you might stop at Mrs. Courtenay’s first, if you 
care to. She will undoubtedly be assisting her 
mother. ” 

Joan smiled a little and went, looking back at the 
bowed figure as she passed through the door. 

Rolling lazily down the boulevard in the crisp, 
bright autumn air, the girl’s heart grew light. It 
suited her well, all this perfectly appointed luxury. 
She rubbed the finger of her glove down the wine-col- 
ored lining of the carriage, and looked thoughtfully 
at the streak of gray on the white kid. Square, tow- 
ering residences of stone lined the street on either 
side, their crystal windows reflecting masses of red- 
gold light from the lowering sun. Joan watched them 
in quiet content. This was the sphere to which she 
belonged. The other, the convent, had only been 
bearable because she had never known anything dif- 
ferent. Now, down the street and coming toward her 
she beheld someone whose face she knew well. Cour- 
tenay was strolling languidly up for his afternoon 
coffee at the club. Joan watched him intently, quite 
unconscious of the fixedness of her look. Presently, 
when the carriage was just abreast of the pedestrian, 
the man looked up and caught Joan Howard’s eyes 
full upon him. He started visibly, cast a rapid look 
over the victoria, footman, coachman, the liveries, 
monograms on carriage and harness, then at the two 
or three ordinary people on the street, and slowly, 

88 


“MY NIECE, MISS HOWARD” 


with a still astounded air, raised his hand to his hat, 
and bowed to the bewildered girl. She made a half 
inclination of her head, from the very suddenness of 
the matter, and then drew herself angrily back, her 
cheeks reddening. Courtenay passed on without 
looking round. Not many yards farther up the street 
he encountered Kent out for his afternoon constitu- 
tional. The doctor greeted him cordially, but Cour- 
tenay took no heed of it. 

“Jimmy,” he burst out, “Stagmar’s gone mad. 
Fancy! Not ten minutes ago I passed his victoria 
driving down the boulevard, and Jim, upon my soul, 
as I stand here, Helen Howard sat in it alone as 
calmly as though she — she was his wife.” 

Kent stopped short, staring at him with his cheeks 
bloodless. “Good God, Bob! It isn’t possible! I 
left Helen Howard this morning in a high fever! Oh, 
Lord! is the man bound to ruin all of. us! Tut! it’s 
not possible, I tell you. Why, Herbert, Herbert 
hardly knows — ” Kent stopped, stuttering. The lie 
would not come, but he had done his best. 

The upshot of it was that as soon as Courtenay 
could be got rid of the doctor made all haste to the 
house of his friend. It was evident that Stagmar was. 
not to spend the afternoon in peace. 


89 


CHAPTER VI 


ELEANOR FELTON 

The writer had succeeded in throwing his mind off 
of ordinary things, and had forced down a page of 
strained sentences for his most necessary article, 
when the angry voice of Kent outside the study door 
came to his ears. 

“Well, then, Carson, if you ‘cannot intrude upon 
Mr. Stagmar while at work,’ I will.” 

Forthwith, ignoring the continued protestations of 
the butler, Doctor Jim, his little face still pale, but 
his eyes glowing angrily, entered the room and 
slammed the door behind him. Stagmar’s back was 
toward him, and the writer did not move a hair’s 
breadth. For a moment the faint scratch of the pen 
was the only sound in the room. But the little doctor 
was very serious this time. He set his hat and his 
small morocco medicine-case down upon the table 
vigorously, and then said, shortly, in a deep, growling 
tone: 

“Herbert!” 

The man at the desk laid down his pen, sat for a 
moment as if listening, then turned very slowly about 
until he faced the speaker. His face was cold, his 
eyes half-closed and dull, for Stagmar was thoroughly 
angry. 


90 


ELEANOR FELTON 


“Be so good as to state what you have come for, if 
you have actually any warrant for this intrusion.” 

“Warrant enough. Don’t worry, I’m going 
directly, and it’s very possible that you’ll never be 
intruded on again. I can’t afford to lose what little 
position I’ve gained in the last few years, even for 
the satisfaction of still knowing you, Herbert Stag- 
mar.” 

“What do you mean? Don’t wander, please.” 

“By heaven! you don’t act as though you were 
mad. But how shall I believe anything else when you 
permit a woman like Helen Howard to drive through 
the streets of our city alone in your victoria, attended 
by your servants, and drawn by your horses? The 
woman is your wife, but — are you going to publish 
that fact, my prudent friend?” 

During his speech the angry doctor had backed to 
the door, and now stood with his hand on the knob, 
enjoying the varying expression of Stagmar’s face. 

The writer took a quick step forward, then held up 
his hand to prevent the door’s being opened, and said 
in a low tone: 

“What are you talking of? Who told you th^t 
stuff?” 

“Courtenay — ” 

Of a sudden Stagmar repeated his glance toward 
the painted Magdalene of the yellow hair. He drew 
a breath, and then laughed shortly, a laugh that had 
no mirth in it. “I know,” he said, calmly. “Cour- 
tenay was mistaken. It was daughter, not wife — my 
niece, you know, Kent. It was a curious fate that 
gave them faces so differently alike.” 

9i 


A SOCIAL LION 


Kent stared hard at his friend, and his mouth 
opened and shut again rapidly. Then the writer’s 
mood changed. He seized the doctor by both 
shoulders and drew him back into the middle of the 
room, scanning his odd little face with fierce intens- 
ity, hoping vainly to find within it some coveted 
thought. 

“Jim, old Jim,” the deep voice quivered strangely, 
“is that old boy-folly of mine to cost me everything 
that I have won here in the world by my long slav- 
ery?” 

Kent’s temperament was eminently matter-of-fact, 
but he could still be moved by this unpleasant con- 
dition of the affairs of one for whom he really felt a 
deep affection. To the apparent appeal in those last 
words, however, he could but answer, heavily: 

“I don’t know, Herbert, really, I don’t know. I 
never could understand how you ever did this last 
thing. But it’s done now, and the Lord knows how 
it’ll turn out. My advice is, introduce her as quickly 
as you can. Don’t hesitate. The more calmly you 
take her, the easier everybody else will fall to you. I 
don’t believe the fellows would tell, and the ladies 
certainly oughtn’t to know anything. But an accident 
is always possible. I don’t know, Herbert; really, I 
don’t know. ” 

The doctor finished drearily, having arrived at no 
particular conclusion, and Stagmar stood for a mo- 
ment looking at him with a half-smile. Then he 
made a sudden gesture. 

“Courtenay may be gossiping at the club by this 
time, Jim. For the sake of old days, go and head 

92 


ELEANOR FELTON 


him off for me if you can. I’ll bring Joan out as soon 
as possible; meantime Mrs. Van Alyn has taken her 
up. Don’t fret over it. Just stand by me when you 
have the opportunity. I’ll come to the club to-night. ” 

“Good-by, then, old man. I’ll do what I can for 
you, count on me for that. You have forgotten the 
intrusion now, I trust?” 

“Not a word of that, Kent. I was in a temper. 
Good-by. Bless you.” 

Kent was gone, and the workman alone again. 
The thread of his thought was broken. For a mo- 
ment he stood at his desk, whistling a bar or two, and 
looking down at the scribbled sheets. He laid one 
hand lightly on them, and remarked, earnestly: 

“To be able to portray the living, suffering, long- 
ing, loving, rejoicing, and despairing of others for 
others, the life of the creator of imaginary people 
must be commonplace. It is impossible to write when 
the mind is busied with twisting out plots and coun- 
terplots for the living people whom one meets on the 
stage of actuality. I am getting so that I act for the 
sake of the curtain-calls. It is a bad plan, for some 
day those calls will cease, and then, oh, Stagmar! 
where art thou? Relegated to a minor part, without 
a playable scene in the last drama of life! 

“Heigho! I grow despondent. I shall go to 
Eleanor Felton, and tell her at last all that I have 
kept so neatly hidden under my own hair till now. It 
will be a pity to make her illusions vanish into air, 
and yet I am curious as to how she will take it all.” 

So with a shrug of the shoulders, a banging down 
of his desk cover, and a half-mocking glance at his 

93 


A SOCIAL LION 


picture, Herbert Stagmar disappeared from his study. 

An hour later the writer was informed that Miss 
Felton was at home, and that though it was not her 
day, would be glad to see him. Would he be seated 
in the reception-room? She would be there imme- 
diately. 

Miss Felton’s house, which she herself had planned, 
was small, thoroughly artistic, and perfectly comfort- 
able. Stagmar knew every inch of the first floor, and 
had, first and last, spent nearly a quarter as much 
time in this little place as in his own home. He was 
gazing absently at the symmetrical pattern of the 
Moorish hangings in the little ante-room, when his 
hostess entered. 

Eleanor Felton was never a striking figure, and 
frequently, as to-day, she looked actually insignificant. 
She was dressed in a tightly fitting and perfectly plain 
black gown, with her thin hair thrown straight back 
from her face, her one redeeming feature a strong, 
sensitive mouth. Nevertheless, no one would have 
denied her an interesting personality, and some would 
have confessed that she possessed an unusual amount 
of personal magnetism. Two people more perfectly 
suited for occasional intercourse, and more absolutely 
unsuited for continuous companionship than Herbert 
Stagmar and Eleanor Felton cannot be imagined. 
Through periodic comradeship the character of each 
had become readable to the other; but had the study 
of an hour become the lesson of a lifetime the result 
would have been weariness and constant irritation. 
This latter point both had come to understand better 
than any outsider. , 


94 


ELEANOR FELTON 


“lam glad that you have come at last, Herbert. I 
had begun to believe myself deserted. I am anxious 
to hear the sound of your voice again. Come to my 
den. We shall be disturbed here.” 

Stagmar barely smiled at the cordiality of her 
greeting, and looked over her face with serious eyes 
as he rose and followed her into the disorderly little 
place, where they had already spent many a brilliant 
hour together. When they had entered the room he 
threw himself at once into his usual chair, while his 
companion walked up and down once or twice, a lit- 
tle restlessly. He watched her in silence until she 
sank upon the couch in the corner, where she had the 
light on his face, her own being in shadow. 

“Now you may speak,” she said, looking at him 
intently, with a strained note in her low voice. 

“Yes, now,” he repeated, leaning his head wearily 
on his right hand. “I am going back to Genesis, 
to-day, Eleanor. You shall hear the story of the ris- 
ing of a man’s star, and the beginning of its fall. 
You have never heard all of it before. It isn’t Ibsen 
or Sudermann, but it is none the less realism, and so 
in your line of study. Now to begin. 

“Forty years and three months ago, down in per- 
haps the filthiest slum of this same city a boy was 
born. His father was not much more than a boy, his 
mother was almost an old woman. The boy was of 
good blood on his father’s side, and from that parent 
came the money allowance, scanty enough, which 
enabled the mother to purchase the baby’s first rags. 
The child suffered; it was born to that; but it lived. 
It had come to earth to stay, and refused to be forced 

95 


A SOCIAL LION 


off again. At the age of two years the boy was earn- 
ing more than three-fourths of its living by careful 
supervision of the gutters, and the hiding-places where 
dogs deposited newly-stolen bones. At three he had 
become self-supporting, and a month or so after this 
joyous anniversary he was left alone, for his mother, 
together with his father’s allowance, disappeared. 
The child took this questionable loss philosophically. 
His mother’s temper had not been at all times 
equable, and the muscles in her arms had become 
highly developed. This boy became a child of the 
people, and the streets which he knew so well made 
him a satisfactory and roomy home. For two or three 
years he accepted his heritage with equanimity, and 
made no attempt to change a position which he 
thought might have been made vastly worse. It was 
as a “gutter-snipe,” then, that he gained his first last- 
ing impressions of the lives of mankind. There was 
the population of a great city revolving about him, 
and from his points of vantage he beheld each type of 
society, from the lowest, his own class, to the highest, 
of which even then he had begun to dream, vaguely. 
By bits the child obtained a smattering of book-knowl- 
edge. Scrap by scrap he learned to read, from sign- 
boards, concerning which he was curious. From the 
outset this science of marks interested him, and with 
the first cast-off novel that he found and labored 
through, the world, his world, was changed for him. 
The writer’s instinct had been born in him. From 
the beginning he thought of and criticised what he 
read. He wondered why certain sentences were awk- 
wardly put together, and why such fearful dilemmas 

96 


ELEANOR FELTON 


were so unnaturally introduced. Later, after a long 
course of dime novels and acute observation, he began 
to wonder over the dilemmas themselves. In real 
life, even of the melodramatic classes, men and 
women were drugged only through their own desire ; 
there were villains in plenty, but their crimes were 
for paltry and obvious reasons; people rarely com- 
mitted suicide, and then never for despairing love, 
and the chivalrous heroes and supernaturally beauti- 
ful heroines were mournfully absent members of ordi- 
nary society. I can remember vividly the day when 
the boy opened his eyes indignantly and flung his yel- 
low book to the ground. ‘It ain’t true. Such things 
don’t happen, and I know it. The men that write 
about ’em are lyin’. I’m sick of the lot of ’em. Why 
can’t they write the truth?’ 

“For a time the boy gave up reading, and in the 
hours when he was not at work applied himself to 
other things. He had become a printer’s devil, and 
he lived royally upon two dollars a week. Think, 
Eleanor, something less than thirty cents a day, and 
he was never invited out to dine, in those times. 

“The boy worked, and the boy dreamed. Strange, 
far-off dreams were his, of men who had gone before 
and left their names on the roll of Time, which he read 
nowadays, and called history. His unanswered ques- 
tion was whether lives like those were possible now, 
and his unspoken hope that they were. The War of 
the Rebellion had ended seven years before. He was 
thirteen now, a wild, unsociable lad. His comrades 
hated him doutless, but they dared not show it, for 
his temper was quick, and his body strong and under- 


97 


A SOCIAL LION 


fed. In the newspaper office where he worked he 
saw a certain range of ascent before him. To be 
editor of a daily was a certain kind of greatness. It 
gave much power and personal authority, and those 
were always adjuncts of his dim ideal. He heard 
Horace Greeley’s name spoken with respect by every 
flippant column-a-day man on the staff. That realiza- 
tion might be sufficient if he ever attained to it — and 
he had never a doubt of his ability, for he was not 
afraid of work. Then, after he had been called upon 
to do the assistant editor’s work every night for a 
couple of months during his chief’s vacation, that 
vision vanished and crumbled away like the thoughts 
which go when the music stops. 

“Finally a volume of ‘Pendennis’ fell into his 
outstretched hands, and one member of the human 
race had found the work he was to do. From that 
moment an understanding of his talent came to him, 
and for the first time he put his pen to paper with a 
definite purpose. 

“Then came the great fire which destroyed the 
boy’s city, and afterward he aided in rebuilding it. 
The little halt helped on the development of his views, 
for during the days of desolation the better depths of 
men’s natures gave out their kindly contents, and the 
budding pessimist stood astounded at the revelation. 
Ah, how much easier are the great calamities to bear 
than the pin-pricks of life! During all his youth the 
boy studied, worked, thought, and grew in all ways; 
and finally, when he stood upon the verge of manhood 
he began to play. It is a grave mistake to take the 
early years seriously. The reaction is infinitely more 

98 


ELEANOR FELTON 


tremendous when it is suddenly discovered that all 
around on every hand roll rivers of unknown and 
untold pleasures, to realize that with one short plunge 
you have escaped the dry, dusty, honest world, and 
lie floating in those cool, shimmering, illusive shal- 
lows. 

“The young man found these things. He had a 
few friends — not many; a young doctor, an artist 
already married and father of a son, and half-a-dozen 
fellow-reporters who worked on his paper. He had 
begun to make some little name for himself among 
newspaper men. But his heart burned and his fancy 
flew out beyond that, to greater days. He wrote 
stories, books, plays, essays, had them rejected by 
publishers, good-naturedly guyed by friends, and 
burned by himself. But he kept on, for he was bound 
in honor to himself to stick to his chosen work. 

“Nevertheless, he began to play.” Here Herbert 
Stagmar stopped speaking for a moment and glanced 
for the first time at his listener. Miss Felton’s eyes 
were still thoughtfully upon him. 

“Go on, Herbert. I am interested.’’ 

Stagmar picked up a trinket from the table, which 
he fingered nervously, and then, a frown between his 
brows, and his eyes on the floor, went on. 

“He did what other men do; drank, gambled, 
wasted money, even threw it away, but without run- 
ning into debt. He went without fires to pay for his 
wine, and he — he wrote tracts in order to take his 
place at the pool-table.’’ Eleanor laughed a little. 

“And finally, in the course of time, he met a 
woman — a wonderful, glorious woman she was in 


99 


A SOCIAL LION 


those days, Eleanor. And he loved her. Others — 
many others — had loved her, and she had laughed 
their love into mighty flames. But my passion for 
her was more than theirs. It changed my life, 
sobered it, made me think again. The doctor and 
the artist laughed, but I ordered some coal, and cast 
the empty bottles out of my window. ” All uncon- 
sciously Stagmar had fallen into the first person, for 
these memories were powerful things, and his listener 
gave no sign. 

“One afternoon, late, after my work at the office 
was done, I went to the house where Helen lived, 
and offered her marriage, support, a home. She was 
astonished, glad I think. She cried, I remember, and 
then laughed, in the same way, and — and refused. 
She said — she loved — the old — life — best.” 

Herbert Stagmar’s head drooped into his hands, 
and the last word was barely intelligible. Eleanor 
scarcely breathed, but her eyes were dim as she 
looked at the bowed head of the man she could have 
loved. A pause of a long minute, and his voice rose 
again on the silence. 

“I went back alone to my den, and what an even- 
ing that was that I spent I shall never forget. Kent 
came, and Chatsworth with him, and I sent them 
both away. I couldn’t bear their talking, yet I 
hated to stay with my own thoughts. I sat and 
watched my candle burn away and longed to go out 
into oblivion with it. Then Eleanor — then she came. 
Helen herself came to me. She knelt outside my 
door and listened and called my name, softly. I went 
to her and lifted her up — poor girl! — poor girl! I 


ioo 


ELEANOR FELTON 


kissed her once when she went, and gave her my coat 
to wear over her shoulders, for she was not warmly 
dressed. What I did during the rest of that night I 
can scarcely remember. I was like a madman. I 
saw Kent and the artist, I know, and they laughed 
with me, thinking that my craze would pass with the 
darkness. But it did not. The next day they were 
both with me when Helen — Howard and I were mar- 
ried.” 

“Good heavens!” 

The sharply agonized exclamation roused Herbert 
Stagmar from his mood of quiet reminiscence. He 
looked up at the figure of the woman standing before 
him. “Yes, Eleanor,” he answered, still in his low, 
even tone, “that is what I came to tell you. Let me 
finish the — story.” 

Miss Felton seated herself blindly, and continued 
to stare into his face, unconscious of her expression 
of horror. Stagmar went on. 

“Helen Howard was a Roman Catholic, and a 
peculiarly devout one. I had neither reason nor 
desire for her to give up her religion, for at that time 
I was of no acknowledged creed. Upon our wedding 
day, therefore, I was received into the church by the 
same priest that married us. I was deeply enough in 
earnest at the time to insist upon a civil as well as 
religious ceremony. The knot which bound us was 
well tied, you perceive. So I took her to the home 
that I had made for myself. Here in two rooms we 
lived, happily, for three months, contentedly for 
three more. During this time my first successful 
book was published. ‘Destiny’ I called it. I see a 

IOI 


A SOCIAL LION 


copy in the case there now. I could not easily forget 
the day when I held the first volume — damp from the 
press, its fresh, uncut leaves smelling sweeter to me 
than any perfume— close to my heart. Ay, and we 
laughed, and feasted, and drank together, Kent, and 
the artist, and Helen, and I! Good friends, they 
were, and generous hearted as men could be. Poor old 
Chatsworth! He died not long after, leaving Horace, 
a child then, and a disagreeable wife behind him. 

“My book sold well, but my profits were small. 
Publishers do not love young authors, and the begin- 
ning is always slow. Helen was not satisfied with the 
receipts, and finally made me, who was careless 
enough about money then, think myself unjustly 
treated. We talked about it a good deal, and not 
very good-naturedly toward the last. Finally, one 
day she told me that if I couldn’t make money in one 
way, I must in another. She advised me to speculate, 
and brought out what little we had saved for a be- 
ginning. Within the fortnight I had lost it all, laughed 
about it, and went back to my desk and my dreams. 

“After another three months of that life together, 
Helen grew bored. I partially returned to the old life 
with my companions, for I could stand tears, and 
silence, and fits of anger no better than other men. 
Helen was tired of me and our monotonous life. I 
might have foreseen the end, but I was twenty-three, 
fond of my wife, and light-hearted at that. It was all 
over one day. She had not been true, I thought. In 
her fury with me she let me think what I chose. Joan 
had come to us then. Nevertheless, in spite of her, 
by mutual agreement we separated. The baby was 


102 


ELEANOR FELTON 


sent into a convent, where she grew up; Helen went 
on the stage as a dancer — she had genius for that 
sort of thing, and I lived on alone again with my am- 
bition, and with Kent. 

“Helen and I were well married. Mother Church 
would see to it that it should be difficult for us to be 
divorced. All things considered, it might not have 
been impossible, but you know the Roman Catholic 
law on that point and its stringency. At any rate I 
did not care to try, and never have, for I abhor pub- 
licity. From that day to this I have watched her, 
my wife, from a distance, and I have seen her but 
four or five times during this seventeen years. 

“My rise came gradually and surely. After that 
first disastrous attempt I speculated often, and with 
unusual success, perhaps because I was careless about 
the loss. It was the excitement that I wanted. My 
writing also came to bring me in something of an 
income. Kent climbed up with me, and finally mar- 
ried Louise Brent in triumph. Her position in soci- 
ety naturally assured him success, and as I had been 
groomsman at his wedding, I was well received at 
their house. Kent and the priest alone knew of the 
marriage with her who is still my wife. You are the 
third outsider to be told, and in all probability 
the last. Recent circumstances have brought my 
daughter into my house, and though I could not 
acknowledge her as my child, I have adopted her as 
niece, and she is the same to me as though I had 
permitted her to bear my name. 

“There you have the story of the folly that has 
spoiled a life. I came to tell it to you to-day because 

103 


A SOCIAL LION 


it is almost impossible for me to keep it to myself any 
longer, and also because I wanted to know what you, 
the most sensible of women, think of it. Now do you 
thoroughly comprehend what all this means, Eleanor? 
How, notwithstanding my measureless ambitions and 
my capacity for the slavery that they require, a per- 
fect self-success has been always beyond my grasp? 
I have had to live with the knowledge that my early 
life must be concealed. I am bound, through my own 
act; bound for this life, which I believe the only life, 
to a woman who has been born and reared among the 
lowly, surrounded by the last type of humanity, who 
absorbed, easily and naturally, all the ways of her 
fellows. I have had to realize from the beginning 
that my career could never reach the heights that I 
could see above me. A woman’s jealousy — that of 
such a woman as Helen Howard — is a thing that can- 
not be set aside. Before we parted she showed me 
my road, and religiously I have followed it. At first 
my pleasure in the new life I led gratified me, but of 
late years it has grown continually duller, until now I 
begin to ache with the weariness of keeping on in the 
middle of the dusty road, in the full glare of the sun 
and the choke of the dust. Beside me, on either 
hand, I can see well-earned, shady lanes that wander 
on through cool, hidden depths — but they are out of 
her sight, and so lost to me. Always I have avoided 
scandal; but sometime why may I not proclaim the 
story from the housetops, listen a little to the taunts 
of men, and then go plunge away from the confusion 
of Time into the calm oblivion of Eternity?” 

Some emotion had crept into the last fantastic sen- 
104 


ELEANOR FELTON 


tence that the author spoke, and when it was said 
both man and woman were silent for a time, thinking. 
Finally, Eleanor, who had not raised her head since 
that one exclamation, looked up and into his face. 

“Shall I tell you what I think of your story?” 

“It is what I told it for.” 

“I cannot say precisely why, but it strikes me as 
the recital of rather a cowardly life.” 

For a little Stagmar said nothing; then he rose 
and slowly held out his hand. With a second’s hesi- 
tation she took it, and the firm clasp brightened her 
eyes a little. “I agree with you, Eleanor. It is true. 
And yet — and yet you didn’t live through it all. I thank 
you for your judgment. Do you know of a penalty?” 

Miss Felton wearily shook her head. “I pay the 
penalty. My idol is fallen, and you have hacked it 
to pieces. Some day, Her — Herbert, I can come to 
regard you contentedly as I do the rest of the world. 
Just now, I can’t. Nevertheless, I am grateful for 
your confidence. It was a strange story, and like 
you. And after all, you did — nothing wrong. You 
were better than many might have been. I will think 
of it. Good-by.” 

“Good-by, Eleanor.” 

Stagmar could find nothing more to say, and so, 
with mingled emotions, among which relief perhaps 
predominated, he left the house and his friend, but not, 
as he had feared, his friendship. No. Despite the 
bitterness of her words and eyes, he knew that his 
confidence had only added another layer of cement to 
the strong tower of their mutual sympathy. But not 
so would it be with all. 

io 5 


CHAPTER VII 


JOAN HOWARD’S DEBUT 

On the evening of the twenty-second of November 
Stagmar was to introduce his daughter-niece formally 
to Chicago society. He had asked perhaps three 
hundred people to his house, among them most of the 
talented men of the city — artists, musicians, and 
literati — among whom Stagmar himself was recog- 
nized as leader, there to gladden their souls and cheer 
their brains with all the wit, wisdom, wickedness, 
folly, and champagne that could be endured in one 
night; and also, as the primary object of their coming, 
to present to them the last acquisition of his establish- 
ment, the prospective companion of his declining 
years, as he whimsically had put it to Joan herself. 

Miss Howard was not nervous over the momentous 
affair, for extreme self-consciousness was not one of 
her characteristics, neither could the adjective shy be 
applied to her now. Her costume was in very good 
taste, and very expensive, and when she was dressed, 
at an hour somewhat early, she dismissed her maid 
and remained for a few moments in her room, having 
intended to devote herself for a quarter of an hour of 
serious meditation. But Joan was human, and con- 
centration upon serious subjects is well-nigh impos- 
sible at such a time. Most of her fifteen minutes 

106 


JOAN HOWARD’S D&BUT 


passed rapidly in a retrospection of the incident of a 
week ago when Robert Courtenay had bowed to her. 
She had dreamed rather more than she would have 
confessed over the face of the man whose photograph 
stood in her uncle’s study, and now she wondered 
with unprofitable curiosity as to whether she would 
meet him — perhaps to-night. 

At half-past eight she gathered up her delicate, 
misty skirts and slowly descended the oaken staircase. 
Her father was not in the hall, nor was he in the 
softly-lighted drawing-rooms. “In his study,” she 
thought, and went there to find him. But that great 
room, with its dark, carved panelings and deep red 
walls, was empty, too. It was lighted only by a small 
electric lamp standing on top of the low, broad 
mantelpiece. Against this lamp, with the red light 
glowing down upon its face, stood the picture of Cour- 
tenay. 

The girl threw open the heavy door and entered 
quietly. A lazy slumbrous odor of incense hung 
pleasantly through the room. Stagmar had been 
writing an ecclesiastical story that day, and left this 
trace of his theme behind him. It struck a chord of 
memory in Joan’s heart, and she stood looking 
dreamily about her, forgetful of the object of her 
coming. Her eyes encountered those of the photo- 
graph, and she moved slowly toward it, never looking 
away from that face, which seemed interwoven with 
her destiny in this new life. Almost reverently she 
took up the picture, studying the strong, egotistical 
features until they had so burned themselves into her 
mind during that ten minutes that never again, so 

107 


A SOCIAL LION 


long as she lived, did Joan Howard find herself 
unable to call them up before her, even to the droop- 
ing black lashes that shaded the changeable eyes. 
Here, as she stood alone in a great man’s workroom, 
under the malignant gaze of the pallid Magdalene 
over the desk yonder, the germ of the first, the great- 
est, and the only real love that the girl’s strange heart 
ever knew was conceived — and behold! Joan Howard 
was a girl no longer, but a woman. She stood quite 
still, her thoughts wandering now, when she felt the 
door open, and knew that Stagmar’s eyes were on 
her. Hastily and unperceived she dropped the photo- 
graph upon the floor at her feet, as it might have fal- 
len, and turned to him. 

“I have been looking for you, Joan. It is time 
that you were in the drawing-room. Mrs. Van Alyn 
has just gone upstairs.” His tone was slightly 
severe, for he was not fond of finding others alone in 
his sanctum. Joan knew this, and only answered 
quietly as they left the room : 

“I had been looking for you, and then forgot what 
I went to the study for. I am growing absent- 
minded.” 

Stagmar laughed and kissed her hand caressingly 
as he motioned to Carson, who brought forward a 
great, showery bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley, mingled 
with clusters of heavy purple orchids, tied with long 
ends of ribbon of the same colors. Joan could say 
nothing in admiration, but the somewhat blase author 
smiled with satisfaction at the light in her eyes as he 
turned to greet Mrs. Van Alyn, who had been 
gracious enough to assist them in receiving. When 
108 


JOAN HOWARD’S DfiBUT 


her husband descended he also bore a massive bou- 
quet for the debutante — this one of Duchess of Albany 
roses and feathery maidenhair. 

Bromler Van Alyn had not met Stagmar’s niece, 
and after the presentation, which Joan sustained with 
absolute grace, the older man stepped aside to his 
host in complete admiration. 

“I must have met a couple of thousand of them at 
least,” said Van Alyn, “but, by the Lord, Stagmar, 
I never saw one like that! She’s got that something 
about her that Mesmer called magnetism and Edison 
calls electricity, and Brother Snippington might call — 
the devil, but which, whatever it is, is going to set 
her on her feet straight from the outset, from to-night 
till the day when she throws herself away on some 
fool as they all do. ” 

Bromler Van Alyn had in all probability never 
made a speech like that about any woman before, and 
it was a strong feeling that had made him utter it 
now. Stagmar was not pleased with the sentiment it 
conveyed. Nay, old memories were too strong for 
that. Upon his face was a frown as he went forward. 

“Good-evening, doctor. So charmed, Mrs. Kent — 
you and Miss Edith have not yet met my niece, I 
believe? Allow me to present Miss Howard.” 

As her father spoke Joan bowed obediently, and 
then looked curiously at the tall, slender figure and 
classic face of the young lady before her. She felt 
an instant admiration for, and also an unexplainable 
dread of Edith Kent. Edith, on the contrary, swiftly 
and critically examined her new acquaintance, found 
her lacking in neither breeding nor taste, murmured 
109 


A SOCIAL LION 


a few exceptionally cordial words, and passed on. 
Mrs. Kent, after some polite and pointless observa- 
tions, crossed over to her host, anxious to bore him 
with a new anecdote, and also wishing to have her 
face toward Miss Howard, with whom she had been 
impressed, wondering whether it was her serious man- 
ner, the occasional brilliant half-smile, or the series of 
rapid and unstudied expressions which played over her 
face which produced that peculiar fascination which 
even she could feel. 

Stagmar had been caught and held by three or four 
people, and for the moment had turned from Mrs. 
Van Alyn’s side. During a slight pause in his conver- 
sation he caught the sound of her voice, saying cor- 
dially : 

“Ah, Miss Felton! Good evening! We had 
hoped for you earlier. Let me present to you Miss 
Howard, Herbert’s niece.’’ 

The author could not restrain a swift glance over 
his shoulder. He was just in time to catch Eleanor’s 
look of surprised admiration as she bowed and spoke 
a few earnest words in her quiet manner; and then he 
turned away again to Kent until she should come up 
to him. 

Miss Felton’s mind had not been easy since the 
last time that she had seen Stagmar. She felt that 
she had judged him too severely, and was intensely 
anxious to speak with him again on the subject of his 
daughter, and also, if possible, his wife. She dressed 
herself more carefully than usual this evening, and, 
having encased herself in an unassailable armor of 
self-possession, went forth to satisfy her curiosity in 


no 


JOAN HOWARD’S DfiBUT 


regard to the debutante. Upon her entrance to the 
drawing-room it needed all her nonchalance to keep 
her from an exclamation at sight of the beauty of 
Joan Howard. Stagmar had seen the only sign that 
her astonishment had given, of which fact she was 
ignorant. She passed on, with her temples throbbing 
a little, and silently held out her hand to the master 
of the house. 

“Good evening, Miss Felton — ?” came his steady 
tones, the phrase marked slightly by the rising inflec- 
tion toward the end. 

“Is.it good evening to me?” she asked, rather 
indistinctly. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, bending his head 
toward her. 

“Oh, no! I beg yours. I really came to do it. I have 
forgiven you more than ever now — since I saw Joan.” 

“Thank you. You have lifted a weight from me. 
I will speak with you a little later, when there is less 
of a crowd. ” 

Eleanor smiled and passed on, content with what 
had already been said. 

In the meantime Doctor Kent and young Callowell 
Garth, their eyes fixed alternately upon Bromler Van 
Alyn and the door, were talking together with great 
soberness. 

“He ought to come, Kent. Be so deucedly pointed 
if he didn’t, ye know. Stagmar’s irreproachable, of 
course — oh, no need to look at me. I know him as 
well as you, almost. Bob was certainly dead broke, 
though, now, wasn’t he, ol’ chap?” 

“He was,” agreed the doctor, solemnly. “He 


ii 


A SOCIAL LION 


most certainly was. He’s lost well onto twenty thou- 
sand in the last three nights, I know. Stagmar 
wanted to stop toward the last, but Courtenay wouldn’t 
have it. He was crazy, stark crazy.” 

‘‘Whatever was it started them?” 

‘‘Couldn’t say, exactly. I believe it was some sort 
of wager, the best two nights out of three. And they 
played all night.” 

‘‘Oh, but do you recollect the size of those pots, 
dear boy! Why, if I’d been in with ’em myself I’d 
have gone home dead drunk every night, so I would, 
by Jove! I wilted three collars just looking it over 
for* a couple of hours on Wednesday, by the Lord I 
did, Jimmy!” 

Kent laughed softly, adding, ‘‘Well, Bob was drunk 
enough the last two evenings, I should judge.” And 
then they continued to watch the door. 

From the foregoing conversation it is not difficult 
to gather that more than one person in those rooms 
was awaiting the advent of Robert Courtenay with 
curiosity that night. Perhaps no one of the dozen 
men there who, including Stagmar himself, were 
anxiously awaiting for the proof of a man’s pride, 
looked forward to his coming with half the anticipa- 
tion than Joan, with all her uncertainty, indulged in. 
It was growing rather late now for more arrivals. 
The large rooms were filled. And still the debutante 
scanned each new face with curiosity and chagrin. 
The influx of guests diminished continually, and Mrs. 
Van Alyn turned frequently for a moment from the 
young girl’s side. She was speaking now with a pon- 
derous professor of sciences from the university, and 


JOAN HOWARD’S DfiBUT 


Joan, left to herself, began studying the orchids of 
her first bouquet. Suddenly Mrs. Courtenay’s color- 
less tones made her look up. 

“Good evening, Miss Howard! I do not have to 
be introduced by mamma, do I, you tired girl? How 
charming everything is, is it not? I have come down 
in advance of my husband, but I must wait and pre- 
sent him to you myself, I think. He is always 
charming to young girls.’’ 

Of the extent of this charm Mrs. Courtenay was 
happily unaware. However, Joan was quite ignorant 
of Courtenay’s identity at that time, and the remarks 
made little impression upon her. In a moment she 
perceived Marie nodding and smiling as she murmured, 
“Ah! there he is.’’ The girl turned politely and 
looked up the stairway. Instantly there flew to her 
cheeks one swift rush of scarlet, then the color drew 
away, leaving her face pallid. She stood with her 
hands shaking a little, and her heart pounding fiercely. 
By the time the monotonous words, “Miss Howard, 
allow me to present,’’ fell on her ears, she was col- 
lected enough to bow slightly. Then, raising her 
head, she felt herself looking for one long moment 
down into a pair of baffling gray-green eyes shaded 
by heavy dark lashes. Not a word was spoken. He 
was gone, his wife leaning gracefully upon his left 
arm, her gown of pale turquoise velvet clinging in ser- 
pentine folds about her perfectly trained figure. Joan 
looked after them, as they made their way through 
the throng, bowing here, speaking there, pausing 
again, everyone greeting them with eagerness, until 
they had passed from her sight in the throng. 

XI 3 


A SOCIAL LION 


The girl’s eyes burned. So it was over. He was 
married. She had not thought of that before, but 
certainly it was the most natural thing in the world. 
Of course — he was married. She threw her head back 
for a second as her father came up to her saying that 
she need stand there no longer. He wished her to 
come with him now to meet and talk with an old 
friend of his. Miss Howard found herself upon a 
small sofa in a corner with Eleanor Felton beside her 
and her father gone to bring her fan. No one whom 
she knew was near her, and Courtenay was out of 
sight, as was proper. What, then, made her so ner- 
vous? Why should she be looking about out of her 
aching eyes at every object within her range of vision? 
Why was it impossible for her to keep her fingers 
still? Eleanor watched her loftily, feeling that she 
was untrained. Joan wondered why this lady beside 
her could not speak, and then judged her to be of — 
his wife’s type. She was astonished at her father. 
It was some moments before her astonishment was 
abated. She had finally looked up into the strong, 
plain, severe face of Miss Felton, and thought with a 
start how incongruously it appeared, rising above the 
rose-colored moir£ and point de Burano which the 
elder woman wore. 

When Joan turned, Eleanor spoke. The sentence 
was sufficient to drive all vagrant thoughts out of her 
head. 

“You are fond of your father?’’ she asked, quietly. 

The girl caught her breath. “My f — ather?’’ she 
faltered. 

“I have known Mr. Stagmar for a long time, inti- 


JOAN HOWARD’S DEBUT 


mately, Joan,” the older woman went on, “and he 
has been good enough to tell me your real relationship 
to him. Of course, before others I do not speak of 
him as anything but your uncle. But I wanted you 
to know that I understand, for I am anxious to be a 
friend to you as well as to him. And in truth, my 
dear, there are many things in which I might be of 
use to you. Your position here is rather a difficult 
one, and mine is absolutely assured. I am permitted 
many eccentricities, and indeed I need the permission. 
Do you think that you can come to like me?” 

Eleanor’s odd frankness was infectious. Joan fell 
at once into the spirit of her manner. 

“I like you already,” she said, smiling. “You 
make me feel at home with you, and these other peo- 
ple do not. ” 

“Of course not. It is their great object in life to 
impress people with their exclusiveness and their vast 
superiority. It would never do for them to let them- 
selves be found out easily.” 

Joan looked at her for a moment in serious silence. 
Then she said, almost panting for breath apparently: 
“It is very warm here, is it not? The odor of the 
flowers makes me ill.” 

Then it was that Eleanor Felton discovered her 
mistake. She had unwittingly been talking with a 
would-be one of “these people.” Oh, alack-a-day! 
And Stagmar’s daughter! 

‘ 4 My dear J oan, ’ ’ came a gentle voice at that young 
lady’s right hand. Joan turned about immediately to 
Mrs. Van Alyn, who was beside her, and behind whom 
stood a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with 

”5 


A SOCIAL LION 


pleasant face, large eyes, and brown, waving hair. 
Joan liked his face at first sight. 

“Miss Howard, this is Malcolm, my son. His 
arrival is unpardonably late, but for all that I could 
not punish him by not bringing him up to present to 
you. ” 

The admiration in Malcolm’s eyes was very palpa- 
ble as he answered, smilingly: “Miss Howard, they 
did not tell me what a reward was held out to early 
comers, or I can assure you that I should never have 
wasted so precious an hour in an artist’s den.’’ 

The position was embarrassing to Joan, who was 
not used to young men, nor to such speeches. Eleanor 
Felton rose, however, and after patting Malcolm’s 
shoulder whimsically, moved slowly off with Mrs. Van 
Alyn, leaving the two young people together, to Mal- 
colm’s satisfaction. Joan, too, was not displeased, 
for she had a feminine liking for a good-looking man 
and something of her mother’s adaptability to their 
manners. 

Malcolm was not often at a loss with a young lady, 
and certainly not so at the side of the most beautiful 
girl whom he had met for many a day. His start was 
excellent. Pulling a small, light fan from the mys- 
tery of some one of his pockets, he asked if its ser- 
vices would be acceptable. 

Joan thanked him, smiling. “Do you always carry 
a fan with you for humanity’s sake? You cannot 
imagine what a relief this is to me. The air is suffo- 
cating. ’’ 

“You look pale, Miss Howard. Wouldn’t you like 
an ice, or a glass of champagne, or something cool?’’ 
u6 


JOAN HOWARD’S DEBUT 


“Oh, thank you, no! All that I need is to sit here 
for a few moments with you and the fan, if you will 
be so good. You know standing up being introduced 
to people for two or three hours steadily is wearing. 
And I am not used to that sort of thing.” 

“I know,” he said, sympathetically. “I have often 
wondered how any of you stood it.” 

Their conversation, which continued for many 
minutes, was not brilliant, but it was entirely satisfac- 
tory to both of them. Joan had become absorbed in 
an account of the last tennis tournament of the sea- 
son, in which Malcolm had taken part. Her eyes 
were fixed interestedly upon his face, and her expres- 
sion responded to every turn of his narrative. Her 
companion found himself beginning to grow unexpect- 
edly eloquent, and also more and more lost in admira- 
tion of his companion. The tournament was finished, 
and he had just begun upon the great Midlothian golf 
match, now approaching, when the girl looked up to 
find the tall figure of Courtenay before her, his eyes 
gleaming somewhat sarcastically upon his young 
brother-in-law’s annoyed face, as he said, with a hint 
of significance in his voice: 

‘‘My dear Miss Howard, we cannot permit Mal- 
colm here to monopolize you for the entire evening. 
Mrs. Van Alyn asked me to come and take you to the 
ball-room, or in the direction of an ice, if you prefer 
it. Do you dance, Miss Howard?” 

In this last sudden question Joan saw nothing 
pointed, but Malcolm reddened furiously under what 
he considered an insult. Up to this moment he had, 
beneath the spell of her magnetism, forgotten certain 

ll 7 


A SOCIAL LION 


innuendoes he had heard, and now his fingers worked 
nervously as he stared at the man before him. 

The debutante perceived that Mrs. Van Alyn — or 
somebody else — wished the tete-a-tete stopped, and 
she rose at once, gracefully. Courtenay felt the little 
tremor of her hand as she accepted his arm, and was 
gratified by it. He looked at her face out of the 
corners of his eyes, and took a sudden resolution. 
Malcolm Van Alyn, with a strong phrase unuttered on 
his lips, watched the couple as they disappeared down 
the room. 

When they had progressed silently for some mo- 
ments Joan suddenly answered Courtenay’s question: 

“No, Mr. Courtenay, I do not dance. It was not 
taught in the convent where I have lived. But I shall 
learn as soon as possible. I am quite ashamed of the 
deficiency, and shall take private lessons if possible.” 

“What would be the use of that, / Miss Howard?” 
asked Courtenay, slowly. “Here is a good floor, there 
is excellent music — and behold in me a most willing 
professor. ” 

Joan laughed aloud. “Fancy it!” she said. “All 
these conventionally revolving couples suddenly be- 
holding me with my skirts held so, you, with your 
coat-tails out, facing me, and then here we go! One, 
two, three, turn half round and then back!” As she 
spoke the girl suited action to words, and executed a 
sudden little pirouette with such a quick and cat-like 
grace that Courtenay looked at her in astonishment. 

“Not much doubt — now,” he muttered to himself, 
still watching her. But aloud he said: “No neces- 
sity for taking others into our confidence, Miss Joan. 

118 


JOAN HOWARD’S DEBUT 


There is the Turkish room, just off the hall. Not a 
soul in it. We can drop the portiere, and I warrant 
we shall not be intruded upon. Will you come?” 

Joan hesitated, met his eye bent curiously upon 
her, then threw her head aside, and went. Courtenay 
followed her closely, saw her within the room, 
unhooked the fastening of the curtain with a slight 
twist of his left hand, and they were alone. Edith 
Kent, who was dancing in the ball-room, was the only 
one who had seen their entrance. 

Joan seated herself slowly on a small, cushioned 
stool, and then looked up at her partner with her 
mouth drawn mockingly. The low strains of a waltz 
came dreamily in to them. The girl hated its melody 
forever after. But now the blood in her veins flowed 
hotly. 

“Well,” she said, laughing, “you may begin now, 
professor. ” 

Courtenay, however, had not the least intention of 
making an exhibition of himself before the girl, whom 
he was doing his best to fascinate. He wanted to see 
how far she would go, he thought to himself. 

“My pupil is expected to do the work,” he replied, 
leaning back on the divan, and taking a cigarette- 
case from his pocket. 

“Will you have one of these, Miss Howard? They 
are very mild, I assure you.” 

“A cigarette, do you mean?” she cried, horrified. 

Courtenay raised his eyebrows and looked amused. 
“Why not? Most ladies smoke nowadays, you know. 
Possibly they did not look upon them with apprecia- 
tion at your convent, but really there are not half a 

119 


A SOCIAL LION 


dozen of your uncle’s guests here to-night who do not 
use them.” 

Joan did not answer, but watched him intently as 
he lighted the slender white roll and began puffing 
the blue, filmy rings up from his lips delicately. He 
was apparently lazily watching them, but really he 
was reading the thoughts which the girl before him 
displayed so unconsciously upon her untrained face. 
He was not unprepared, then, when she leaned impul- 
sively forward and said in a low voice, “Give me one. ” 

“I give them away only on certain conditions,” he 
answered, imperturbably. 

“What are the conditions?” 

“That you let me light your first one for you.” 

“Very well. That is not difficult, surely,” was the 
innocent reply. 

He smiled, and took a fresh one from its case, 
holding it up for her. She came forward, her heart 
beating violently. This was the height of impropriety 
to her. He put the thing between her lips, and drew 
her face down to his. “Here is your light,” he said 
softly, touching the end of his own cigarette, which 
was still in his mouth, to hers. Joan grew cold, but 
could not remove her eyes from his. One of his arms 
held her closely, he touched her other hand, with his, 
lightly. The girl’s heart gave one great throb, and 
with all her strength she pushed him from her, flung 
the scarcely lighted cigarette away, and staggered to 
the door of the little room, her eyes flaming, her 
cheeks like death. 

But Courtenay could not afford to let her go in 
that way. He had gone too far, and he knew it 


120 


JOAN HOWARD’S DfiBUT 


instantly. Rising hastily, he quietly took her arm 
and drew her back again to the chair in which she had 
first sat. He, too, had flung his cigarette away, and 
he stood up before her, regarding her calmly: 

“Miss Howard, I couldn’t let you leave me feeling 
as you do. I owe you an apology, a very earnest 
one. I forgot myself utterly, and behaved to you in 
an unpardonable manner. Can you forget what has 
passed — will you try to forgive me?’’ His manner 
now was that of a perfectly restrained gentleman. 
Joan looked him squarely in the face, still trembling 
a little. 

“You need not apologize. The fault was as much 
mine as yours. I did not act as a lady should. The 
pardon must be mutual — and I trust that both of us 
will forget. Will you take me back to my uncle?’’ 

They passed out of the Turkish room, coming face 
to face with Edith Kent and Malcolm, who had finished 
a dance together. When they had gone Edith’s eyes 
still followed them. “Malcolm,” she said, “your 
brother is a very handsome man. Miss Howard is 
young, is she not?” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Don’t be angry, my dear boy. It was a foolish 
speech. I must have been '.imagining myself to be 
Eleanor Felton. I should like some frappe, please.” 

Joan and Robert Courtenay passed back through 
the long rooms, the girl looking on every side for her 
father, Courtenay watching her gravely out of the 
corners of his eyes. His feeling toward the girl had 
changed. He was beginning to wish that he did not 
know her parentage. But as for doubting that par- 

121 


A SOCIAL LION 


entage now — he could not. Hair, eyes, face, manner, 
all showed the mother in her, and the little exhibition 
of her grace in the dancing hall was final and convinc- 
ing proof. Above all else he wondered at Stagmar’s 
temerity in not giving her his own name — or indeed 
any name than the one she bore. “But for all that,” 
thought Courtenay, “she’s got more in her than her 
mother has. Helen would have let me light the 
cigarette. ’’ 

“There is your uncle, Miss Howard, in the corner 
with Chatsworth and Kent.’’ 

“I’ve been looking for you, Joan,’’ said Stagmar, 
as she went up to him. “Mrs. Van Alyn wished to 
say good-night. She was obliged to go early.’’ 

The girl crimsoned, murmured “I am very sorry,’’ 
and glanced swiftly at Courtenay. She wished that 
he would leave her. She was uncontrollably ill at 
ease in his presence, but she dared not speak. For a 
few moments he stood chatting with his host, and 
then walked away with the doctor. Anxiously the 
girl watched her father, whose eyes were following 
Courtenay’s retreating form, and a thrill of terror 
crept over her lest he had seen! But the writer’s 
thoughts were fixed on something different and more 
serious. He was thinking of the worn green tables 
at All Sinners’. 

The crowd in the rooms was thinning now, for it 
was late. Kent came up with his daughter, about to 
send her off to the dressing-rooms before taking upon 
himself the delicate task of withdrawing his wife from 
the side of dear, dear Doctor Snippington, whom she 
had succeeded in monopolizing for full twenty minutes 


122 


JOAN HOWARD’S DfiBUT 


to the exclusion of half a dozen languishing and 
envious ladies. The divine had enjoyed himself roy- 
ally that evening. He had partaken of no less than 
seven convivial glasses of rare old Madeira, he had 
stolen one wee waltz with charming Mrs. Courtenay, 
and for the rest of the time had devoted himself assid- 
uously to the fairest of the fair members of his parish, 
for whose benefit he had had the luck to remember 
and quote several Scriptural passages of great fitness. 
Also, in an unobtrusive way, he had materially added 
to his fine collection of local gossip and spicy stories 
of all parts of the world. 

The Kents had taken their departure, and now the 
Courtenays came up for their farewells. Marie did it 
gracefully in French, and passed on as her husband 
stopped for an instant to whisper, “You’ll be down 
later, won’t you, Bertie?” 

Stagmar looked thoughtfully at the reckless fel- 
low. “Why not go to bed at home to-night, Bob?” 

“Tut, Stagmar! Don’t be priggish. You’ve 
made a great success of the niece, my boy,” and as he 
went off Courtenay showed all his fine teeth in a 
mocking laugh. 

It was two o’clock when the host stood by the stair- 
case to bow adieu to his last guest. Joan Howard 
had already gone to her room. Carson, the obse- 
quious, was covertly blinking at the oaken door. 
Eleanor Felton, shrouded in a heavy cloak of green 
velvet and silver, rapidly descended and gave her hand 
to Stagmar, who bent over it in silence for a moment. 

“What do you think of her, Eleanor?” 

“If Helen Howard looks like that — Herbert, who 


123 


A SOCIAL LION 


could blame you? Only for God’s sake, be careful of 
her! It is a fearful responsibility to be father to such 
a woman. ” 

“Yes, Eleanor— I know it. Have you seen any- 
thing?’’ 

“No. Malcolm Van Alyn is engaged to Edith 
Kent. ’’ 

With this enigmatic response, she passed out of the 
door. 

“Do you wish anything more, sir?’’ 

“The brougham, Carson. I am going to the club.’’ 


124 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE HUMAN HEART 

The reception which had introduced Joan Howard 
to Chicago society proved a turning point in the per- 
sonal histories of several people prominent in that 
society. From this night Joan Howard herself dated 
a definite though indefinable change in her attitude 
toward her surroundings and companions. To most 
people this revulsion comes once or twice during life. 
The atmosphere, the ordinary aspect of everyday 
habits is changed, how, we do not know. Only the 
old life has now become prehistoric and vague as a 
distant memory. Old thoughts and beliefs are new, 
and new ones, which we had fondly cherished as 
something great and modern, ‘have become old and 
useless. And in the first strange hours of this old- 
new existence, the moment which begot the change 
is somehow always with us, buried out of sight in our 
inner consciousness, whence we sometimes drag it to 
examine it suspiciously, as the cause of weary unrest 
and irritation. 

Joan was changed for the worse. All the latent 
mother in her had suddenly come to the surface of 
her nature, crowding down behind it the old sense and 
sincerity which had been her sterling qualities. At 
the time, those moments with Courtenay in the Turk- 
125 


A SOCIAL LION 


ish room had filled her with disgust and regret. Now, 
to her distorted fancy, they appeared to be the only 
moments she had ever lived. Ordinary routine she 
began intensely to dislike. The memory of her exist- 
ence at the convent was unbearable. She was rest- 
less, irritable, selfish. Courtenay was rarely out of 
her mind, and the fact that he was a married man 
made no difference to her now. Rather it seemed an 
added zest to her strange passion. In reality this 
man was the idol to which she clung during her pas- 
sage from God back to God again. This stage, too, 
comes to us all, and a bad bit of road it is. Lucky 
are they who reach it early on their life-journey, for 
Fate, being fickle, often puts into the hands of Youth 
the staff of a strong illusion which she denies to the 
old and feeble, who need it the more. Therefore, 
these, perchance the greatest of souls, never pass this 
stretch of mud and rock on earth, but must be content 
to rest wearily upon the dusty wayside, to sigh as they 
strain their dim eyes toward the happy ones who have 
gained the marl highway beyond, which stretches out, 
smooth and straight, toward the Sunset City, leagues 
and leagues away. 

Curiously enough, Miss Howard saw very little of 
Courtenay during this time. The little intercourse 
that lay between them was also decidedly unsatisfac- 
tory. When aware that she was to meet him at the 
house of some acquaintance the girl never failed to 
dress with particular care and taste, and experienced 
many an hour of uneasy anticipation beforehand. 
And then, when they stood again face to face, she 
trembled, saw him bow coldly and significantly, felt 

J26 


THE HUMAN HEART 


his eyes upon her for a moment as she passed on, and 
then knew that he would address not one word to her 
during the entire evening, leaving her to talk with 
some one for whom she cared not a jot, growing hot 
each time his form met her eyes, and finally, after his 
departure, she would be fiercely wretched with the 
anger of humiliation. And of all this Stagmar was 
happily ignorant. Acting upon Miss Felton’s prob- 
able suggestion, he watched young Van Alyn. And, 
indeed, here also was food for meditation. 

Courtenay felt himself in a curious position. Since 
the night that he had held Joan Howard in his arms 
he had never been able to fix his attitude toward her. 
She was no stranger to him, yet she was strangely far 
away. Betimes he cried to himself that he loved the 
girl ; again he felt a repulsion toward her that 
augured not well for a devotion which should be in any 
way lasting. Never in her presence was he indiffer- 
ent, and for this very reason he placed upon himself 
the restraint which so annoyed her, and which was 
not easy for him. It gratified him, however, to per- 
ceive that she was annoyed, and had it not been for 
her unfortunately expressive face Joan Howard might 
have been spared the disappointments which so bit- 
terly affected her. 

At this time, too, Robert Courtenay had more seri- 
ous matters upon his mind than a girl’s penchant for 
him. The facts set forth in the short conversation 
between Doctor Kent and young Garth, recounted in 
the last Chapter, were not exaggerated. The singular 
luck which had attended him during his entire career 
at the card-table hitherto, so faithfully that his pro- 


27 


A SOCIAL LION 


fession had become the table, had apparently deserted 
him. The first three nights’ play with the writer had 
left him badly off, and since then reckless anger had 
plunged him deeply enough in debt to disturb even a 
more constitutional nonchalance than his. His pock- 
ets were never empty, but to pay for this his bank- 
book was not a cheerful sight, and Robert Courtenay’s 
penciled black brows were drawn and rough whenever 
he was forced to open it. And, worse than all, his 
name was now spoken in whispers among clubmen, 
and there were games in which he was not asked to 
join. 

During these weeks he continued to visit the 
dancer. La Caralita had grown doubly interesting to 
him now, since the strange advent of another Howard 
into his life. Helen was wonderingly grateful for his 
steadfastness to her in her trouble, and her liking for 
him grew strong with her gratitude. But Helen 
Howard could not know what those long, curiously 
thoughtful looks at her meant. How should she guess 
that he had come only to study her daughter in her? 
No, not all for that, for Helen’s own fascination had 
not deserted her; but how much he learned in that 
quiet intercourse with her she never knew. Continu- 
ally he saw and remembered some quaint gesture or 
trick of speech in the mother which twenty-four hours 
later he verified in Joan, during one of the distant 
vigils that he kept over her while Malcolm Van Alyn, 
at her side, was pouring all his glowing admiration 
from eloquent eyes on her, who sat by him impa- 
tiently and vainly waiting. And Courtenay noted all, 
and was satisfied — perfectly satisfied. 

128 


THE HUMAN HEART 


Only once did there escape him a spark of that 
magnetism which thrilled throughout his impetuous 
nature. For one instant he used it, and then recalled 
it instantly, astonished at the quick flame that leaped 
from the smoldering fire in her eyes. It was at a 
theater. The Kents had invited a large party to 
see Madame Modjeska as Mary Stuart, and Cour- 
tenay sat in the box with Edith, Malcolm, Joan, and 
Mr. Hamilton. He sat directly back of Miss Howard, 
who was wholly absorbed in the piece. Upon her 
mobile face the varying emotions of the great tragedy 
were reproduced in perfect order, and she sat with her 
head strained forward, utterly unconscious of anything 
going on around her. It was this oblivion to all 
things which tempted Courtenay to try her. Wish- 
ing fully to test his power he waited until the greatest 
climax had come. No one could perceive him, for the 
house was dark. Gradually and very slowly he leaned 
forward until his head was so close to Joan’s that his 
breath stirred the spirals of hair upon her neck. His 
eyes fixed upon the little of her face that was visible, 
he gazed at her unwinkingly, steadily, until the force of 
his mind was projected into hers. It was but a mo- 
ment before he noticed a change. Her attention was 
distracted. Her eyes wandered from the stage and 
back to it again, restlessly. She shivered, and he saw 
the trembling. Then, almost imperceptibly, her 
head began to turn, slowly, steadily. There, in the 
darkness of the house, with the words of the great 
actress falling unheeded upon their ears, the eyes of 
these two met in one gleaming flash. For a second 
Joan swayed, helplessly, then with a mighty effort she 

129 


A SOCIAL LION 


murmured in a choked voice, “Please — Mr.— Cour — 
ten — ay — ” Instantly his face changed, and he was 
looking at her with an air of attentive inquiry as Van 
Alyn, distracted by her voice, leaned toward them. 

“Miss Howard wished her wrap,” remarked Cour- 
tenay, reaching for it. 

“Thank you,’’ murmured the girl, with chattering 
teeth. “There must be a draught from the stage.’’ 

“Doubtless,’’ came the courteous reply, as he 
placed the cape about her shoulders. 

And this, without mentioning the annoyance to 
Edith, who was displeased with the interruption, was 
all that was said about the matter at the time. But 
Joan Howard never forgot the circumstance, nor was 
she ignorant of its cause. 

Young Malcolm Van Alyn had seen only the con- 
clusion of this little drama, but young Malcolm Van 
Alyn was by no means blind. Those short sentences 
of Edith’s on the night of Stagmar’s reception: “Your 
brother is a handsome man. Miss Howard is young, 
is she not?” had been indelibly written upon his 
memory. Betimes they haunted him; and since that 
night he had intercepted several small passages of the 
eye between the redoubtable Robert and the instinc- 
tive if inexperienced girl whom he so greatly admired. 
He had not yet mentioned these facts to his brother- 
in-law, but the time when he would do so was drawing 
near, for he had already rehearsed several imaginary 
scenes between them. 

Van Alyn’s attentions to Miss Howard were already 
commented upon by members of his family’s particu- 
lar clique of society, although that society was per- 

130 


THE HUMAN HEART 


fectly accustomed to an old habit of his. For years 
his marriage with Edith Kent had been recognized as 
a certain event of the future, but the young lady in 
question had never objected to any of the meaning- 
less flirtations which he had chosen to carry on by 
the score. Scarcely a debutante of the last two seasons, 
ever since Malcolm had borne off his last Harvard 
laurels, and submitted the last of his college debts to 
his father, but had, at some period of her year, been 
the recipient of his bouquets, candy, and pretty 
phrases. But after each one of these he had returned 
to his quasi-fiancee, who"received him with an amused 
smile and a sisterly word of greeting. Naturally 
then, Miss Howard was regarded as the thirtieth 
favorite, and her reign was fixed on for a month. 
Clubmen bet upon it, and their wives smiled dis- 
creetly over the twain. Only Malcolm himself, and 
possibly Eleanor Felton, saw in it something more 
serious than a flirtation. Joan was amused, but 
thought little of his devotion, except that it was her 
place to receive homage. But Malcolm grew troubled 
as he began to realize the full power of her attrac- 
tion. He began to dread the sight of Edith as he 
had never before done. Hitherto none of his galaxy 
had been comparable to his prospective wife, as he 
had formerly liked to call her. Nowadays that term 
did not come readily to his lips. Instead he came to 
wonder vaguely over the fact that he had never 
formally offered himself to Edith, and he pulled him- 
self up with a flush when he found that his heart light- 
ened at the thought. Why was he bound to Miss 
Kent? Regarding it seriously, he did not know, only 

131 


A SOCIAL LION 


that he felt sure that she expected it. But Joan? 
Did Joan know how he cared for her? Did she care 
for him? Had she ever shown him any feeling deeper 
than coquetry? Perhaps not. Ah, but if that were 
so, he would make her care. He would wait, be very 
careful, very devoted. And then, as his pretty air- 
bubble was about to take on shape and color, to suit 
his ready imagination, insidious conscience crept in 
again with the distressing whisper — “and Edith?” 

Between these two fires the boy led a wretchedly 
hot existence for a couple of weeks or more, until 
there came the incident at the theater. Little as he 
had seen of Courtenay’s experiment, that little had 
awakened in him an angry suspicion and brought his 
determination to the climactic pitch. Late that even- 
ing, when the supper was over, and the ladies safe at 
home, Van Alyn, who was striding moodily toward the 
club in the company of his brother-in-law, suddenly 
shattered the silence. 

“Bob — look here — ” 

“Where?” inquired Courtenay, with polite interest, 
emerging from a gloomy reverie. 

“Don’t get into that mood,” retorted the other, 
sharply. “I want you to tell me honestly just how 
much there is between you and Miss Howard.” 

Robert’s eyes opened wide and green in the dark- 
ness. “What is that to you?” he murmured softly. 

Van Alyn was silent for a moment; then replied, 
with checked insult in his tone, “My sister happens to 
be your wife, you know.” 

“A poor reason in these days, my boy. Or no 
reason at all, since I might retaliate by recalling to 

132 


THE HUMAN HEART 


your erratic memory your own engagement 'to Miss 
Kent.” 

Malcolm’s boot struck the sidewalk with sufficient 
force to make his foot tingle painfully. His tone was 
violent. ‘‘I am no more engaged to Edith Kent than 
you are!” 

‘‘Tut, my boy. You are negligent as well as very 
nervous. ” 

“Tell me, Courtenay,” and the tone was imploring 
now. 

“Malcolm, what difference can it make to you, the 
heir of one of the first families of this great city, how 
much of a flirtation I choose to carry on with the 
fatherless daughter of an actress, Helen Howard?” 

The reply to this brutal speech was a heavy blow 
across the mouth from Van Alyn’s gloved fist. “That 
is the difference it makes to me!” 

Courtenay staggered backward more from astonish- 
ment than anything else. “We are somewhat past 
the age for a midnight fracas in the streets,” he said, 
slowly, “but if you will be at the club to-morrow at 
ten, I shall be quite ready to meet you with what- 
ever — ” 

“No, no, Bob. Don’t. The age for duels is also 
past. I’m no coward, but I could neither injure you 
nor be injured by you. I didn’t know what I was 
doing. I am sorry I struck. You see I’m awfullv in 
earnest. Tell me how you can know that she is the 
child of — of that — creature.” 

Courtenay was fond of Malcolm Van Alyn. Much 
as he affected cynicism, the straightforward sincerity 
of the younger one pleased him highly. Therefore his 

i33 


A SOCIAL LION 


anger cooled as quickly as it heated. But he re- 
mained serious. Putting his hands upon the shoul- 
ders of the other, he whirled him around and faced him 
quietly for a moment. “Malcolm, take my advice. 
Don’t make a fool of yourself over Helen Howard’s 
daughter. Go to see La Caralita for yourself once or 
twice. I’ll give you the address. Then tell me 
whether I lied or not. There now, all right, my boy. 
I forgive you, and let us both forget it. Just wipe my 
face off with this handkerchief. There, your hand, 
and gently this time. All right.’’ 

Heigho! In this queer world men take queer 
notions into their heads. Evenings found Van Alyn 
still at Joan’s side, and daytimes saw him in Helen 
Howard’s tiny drawing-room, never quite at his ease 
with her, yet filled with wonder at the superb fascina- 
tion which pain and sorrow had only increased in her 
strange nature. But Malcolm, though he still eagerly 
followed his lady, had changed, and become so pen- 
sive that society said with calm satisfaction that the 
reign of one more belle was ended. Alas! Society, 
wise as it is, knows not everything. 

Edith Kent was not disturbed at the pensive atti- 
tude of her quasi-lover. To tell the truth she did not 
spend much time in thinking over Malcolm, one way 
or the other. The trend of her own thinking upon 
one subject was serious enough to occupy all the time 
that a society favorite may happen to have for that 
dangerous exercise. It was her feeling about Stag- 
mar which troubled her. She was beginning to regard 
the sentiment with an emotion akin to fear. Herbert 
Stagmar, a man whom she had all her life regarded as 

134 


THE HUMAN HEART 


a genius, one who was to stamp his name deep into 
his time, a man who stood upon a lofty pinnacle of 
fame, far removed from all the ordinary world except 
in actual presence, this man looked up to by a nation, 
was gradually and steadily coming down from his 
place toward her, nearer and nearer, until she almost 
felt the ability to approach his inner self and probe 
the depths of that strange, grave spirit. He had 
revealed himself to her of late, involuntarily, through 
his eyes and lips, and she had listened and wondered 
over his words, and in his presence she was moved by 
a nervous joy. Why, then, should she care for the 
boyish affection of Malcolm Van Alyn, whom, despite 
his twenty-five years, she always regarded as her 
junior? That affection seemed so small in comparison 
to — to what? The answer she dared not frame in 
words. But at the time when she felt her great hope 
more possible, when the light all about her was tinted 
and clarified with roseate gold, behold then the cloud 
came into her sky in the shape of Joan Howard. 
Who was Joan Howard? What was Joan Howard? 
Why was Joan Howard? “Stagmar’s niece,” said 
Society, calmly, and then half of Society, the trousered 
half, blinked discreetly, and the other half, who have 
caught the reputation of being fair, smiled sweetly, 
and waited for a chilly afternoon, some bits of em- 
broidery, and hot chocolate. 

Oh, masculine ones, husbands, brothers, lovers, 
and would-be Brummells, how long will you continue 
to regard femininity as big-eyed and innocently gul- 
lible? Just so long, perhaps, as you have anything 
which you must conceal. But do you fancy that your 

*35 


A SOCIAL LION 


own vices are not strongly mirrored in all those art- 
less and artistic little heads? Have they, think you, 
neither knowledge nor suspicion in their befrizzled 
depths? Because women are not supposed to play 
poker or drink things stronger than unliquored oyster- 
cocktails, do you imagine that they have no ideas 
upon these subjects, and have not at times earnestly 
longed to enjoy them, having never experienced the 
actual vulgarity of the manly existence? And do you 
still fancy that they are not aware of the worst things 
that you do? It might, perhaps, come as something 
of a shock to your manly nerves to hear stories — 
stories that you have done your best to keep from the 
ears of your own boon companions, fall from the rosily 
transparent lips of some carefully bred young girl, 
sitting cosily with a group of her kind, who, in the 
dainty bedroom, are sipping warm, lemoned tea, and 
crumbling ladies’-fingers. Have you any conception 
of the thoughts floating through the brain of that 
demure little debutante in blue and silver who rests 
as heavily as a bit of thistle-down on your arm as you 
promenade sedately round the ball-room? Have you 
an idea that she is recalling some of the most unpar- 
donable scenes of your own wildest grain-days? No? 
Well, well, a man is sometimes less conceited than 
one would fancy! 

To return to Edith. She heard whispers con- 
cerning Joan Howard’s origin, but Herbert Stagmar 
was a man held too high in the esteem of most of the 
women whom he knew for the usual amount of malice 
to enter into their speculations concerning him. For 
the author was a power among womankind, and when 

136 


THE HUMAN HEART 


the quieter sex do occasionally set up an ideal — 
which, by the way, is not so often as is generally sup- 
posed — they are very loyal to it, and will do much to 
keep it unsullied. At first some few would-be exclu- 
sive ones raised an eyebrow, and whispered dubiously, 
but the scale turned quickly. Mrs. Van Alyn had 
called upon Miss Howard, and Joan’s position was 
secure. Ye gods! How does the lightest zephyr sway 
our life’s happiness for good or ill at times! 

Edith never spoke of Joan except with pleasant 
indifference before people, but to herself she was free 
to speak, and speak she did. She felt toward Joan a 
strange, respectful antagonism. Perhaps a lioness 
might so regard a female tiger. She admired the 
girl and disliked her. She felt Joan’s fascination and 
perceived her youth. She saw character in the mouth, 
but danger in the eyes. She beheld both beauty and 
ugliness. Joan was a book in a strange language, of 
which she could only here and there comprehend a 
phrase. For the father in her, Edith, although she 
only dimly perceived the resemblance, liked her at 
once warmly. And Joan herself, who saw but little of 
the other girl, grew to feel toward her as to some one 
who would be severe in triumph and tender in hours 
of woe. Joan liked her for this according as she 
deserved, but never presumed on the acquaintance. 

Edith never thought to mention Miss Howard to 
Eleanor Felton. Had she done so she might have 
learned something of value. Miss Felton had studied 
the girl thoroughly, and come to a decision regarding 
her. The old maid had the unusual gift of being able 
to regard a subject from two standpoints, thus pos- 

i37 


A SOCIAL LION 


sessing the power of impartiality — a tremendous thing 
in a woman, and one of which she made good use. In 
Stagmar’s case her heart had overpowered her brain, 
and she did not regret it, for even as he was she could 
not afford to lose such a friend. Eleanor was a 
great lover of the beautiful, and had early been pre- 
possessed in Joan Howard’s favor. She was wont to 
declare that she had never seen a beautiful woman. 
She had now decided that Helen Howard must be beau- 
tiful, and that with tlhe stern molding of experience 
Joan would be also. Eleanor was contemplating a 
call upon the ex-dancer, and shook her head wrath- 
fully when her own good sense showed her the impos- 
sibility of this course. But she liked Joan, albeit she 
knew that there was danger in the girl’s nature, and 
she perceived also that which was not generally felt, 
the heritage of a lofty dignity that had fallen from 
father to daughter, and would serve her well at a 
pinch. 

As to Malcolm Van Alyn’s sudden fire, the older 
woman had seen that, too; had watched the look in 
his eyes, heard the quiver in his tone which was 
strong with emotion, and decided that it was far more 
than the usual nonsense. And she was not displeased, 
having Stagmar’s interest more at heart than Jim 
Kent’s. 

“Why not?’’ she remarked calmly to herself. “It 
is always a mistake to let two children grow up with 
the idea that they are to marry each other some 
time. I should be pleased to see the idea proved 
faise. ’’ 

But could she have known Herbert Stagmar’s real 
138 


THE HUMAN HEART 


mind — it might have been unfortunate for their friend- 
ship. 

In truth the writer had just begun to recognize the 
attitude of his thoughts toward Edith. She had be- 
come more to him than he would have believed pos- 
sible. He saw the beauty of her nature marked in 
the strength of her features. Her grace and gracious- 
ness dawned upon him now as they had not heretofore. 
And at times her great eyes held for him in their wist- 
ful repression something that made him cover his face 
and groan aloud in anguish. He had known the young 
girl for years, but his love for her had been born in 
one sudden instant, and had grown upon him un- 
awares, until now it surged impetuously through his 
reserved nature. It was none the less strong that he 
could not himself explain it. During his first days of 
realization Stagmar endured much that another man 
would have called unendurable suffering. The love 
of man for woman is the strongest of the emotions. 
Woman may love better than man, but the very need 
of loving, her sentimentality, enables her to sacrifice 
the one she loves if necessary with less actual pain 
than the man would feel in the same instance. The 
fact that Stagmar was strong enough to hide his love 
from all the world, save an occasional involuntary 
betrayal to Edith herself of something of his feeling, 
was no proof that his misery was any the less strong. 
Night after night he watched the hours wear away as 
he sat before his desk, unable to work, or to do aught 
but wretchedly deny himself what his whole being 
cried out for. Was his second passion as mighty as 
the first? Nay, they could not be compared. To 

i39 


A SOCIAL LION 


Helen he had given the free fire of his heart; for Edith 
he would have poured out all the pent-up, restrained 
longing of years, which seemed suddenly to belong to 
her. Often toward early morning, when life is weak- 
est and the pulses beat slowly, a tardy slumber would 
visit him for an hour, and he would wake with a 
mighty start from a dream in which he had forgotten 
his lawful wife, the vivid memory of which would 
remain in his waking mind like a warning. 

At this time a sudden sympathy made the writer 
watch his daughter closely. It was a pity that her 
sleepless nights and irritable days were all ascribed to 
a waning devotion on Van Alyn’s part. It was curi- 
ous, yet inevitable, that Stagmar should never think 
of Robert Courtenay in connection with Joan Howard. 
Courtenay was frequently in his mind these days. 
Most of Courtenay’s bien-awies did give an occasional 
half-hour to the discussion of his difficult position. It 
was clear to those who had seen anything of him dur- 
ing the last weeks that Bromler Van Alyn’s son-in-law 
was in a way to need a great deal of help from Brom- 
ler Van Alyn’s comfortable bank account; but whether 
that gentleman would consider it a part of his quasi- 
paternal duty to assist the husband of his only daugh- 
ter, or, still more speculative, whether Courtenay 
would deem it possible in his position of gentleman to 
ask for that assistance, were matters that admitted of 
many an exciting wager between Courtenay’s con- 
freres of All-Sinners’. 

Robert Courtenay had been wont to make what 
income he could between the Board of Trade by day 
and the poker-table by night. This fact would have 

140 


THE HUMAN HEART 


been considered by himself and his friends to be 
brusquely stated, but it puts the matter in the most 
concise form. Ordinarily the yearly figures in one of 
his little memorandum books were not unpleasant to 
regard, for he was skillful in any so-called game of 
chance. But a fit of uncontrollable recklessness, 
coupled with the most consistent ill-luck, had within a 
month transformed the thought of green baize into a 
nightmare of dread to the usually nonchalant young 
gentleman. And his experience in the wheat-pit had 
equaled the cards. For a couple of weeks the market 
had been strained, and, inspired by an evil genius, 
Courtenay had bought continually, until now his mar- 
gins stood at unreflectable figures. Marie only laughed 
good-humoredly when she heard that he was losing at 
play. Money was nothing to her, except that the 
bills were horribly dirty, and the dollars too clumsy for 
her delicate purse. And as for the Board of Trade — 
what was that? She had a vague idea that it was some 
sort of an old oaken table, around which, in memory 
of King Arthur, men sat to transact business. 

To all appearances Courtenay’s friends were more 
worried for him than he was for himself, for his care- 
less charm of manner never deserted him. Outwardly 
he watched the thousands go with a smile. But 
within — ah ! there was the tumult of anxiety. He had 
given up figuring about it; it rested in the hands of his 
Fate. Once, after a disastrous night, Malcolm walked 
home with his brother. The boy broke silence with 
some trepidation, but with honest good-will in his tone: 

“I say, Bob, I’ve a couple of thousand that I 
haven’t much use for just now. If ycu — ” 

I 4 I 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Stop, Malcolm. When I need money so badly 
that I have to borrow I will come to you, perhaps. 
But do not imagine that I am in straights yet. Poof! 
a night’s bad luck — what is that?” 

Malcolm went on in silence, too surprised and 
relieved to speak again upon the matter. His mind 
was at rest. It was just as well that he did not hear 
the despair in Courtenay’s voice as he muttered to 
himself when they had parted, with a warm, silent 
hand-shake: 

“Two thousand! God! It wouldn’t pay a month’s 
interest at Kohn’s!” 


142 


CHAPTER IX 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 

During these incidents, and amid all the heart- 
aches and smiles, intrigues and plans, weariness and 
eagerness of those people whose inner lives we have 
been examining, that beloved shepherd of an appreci- 
ative flock, the Reverend Titus Emollitus Snippington, 
went his way softly, gently, carefully, ever leaving 
behind him a tortuous, curling pathway of little words, 
deeds, and thoughts, which he was continually drop- 
ping from his smiling lips with a furtive air of not 
wishing any one to perceive how good he was. What 
matter if the words were lies, the thoughts blas- 
phemies, the deeds deceitful? Titus Emollitus was a 
complete success. 

In the faces of some men there is such a multi- 
tude of contradictory emotional remains that it is 
difficult correctly to judge whether the man be scoun- 
drel or saint. Give the surroundings of these persons 
the slightest change, only finger skillfully some chord 
of their natures, and you will make some character 
spread over their features and proclaim itself boldly, 
for these features are expressive. Such a one was 
Snippington. Circumstances had given him, instead 
of the felon’s stripes, the minister’s gown and bands. 
His hair then changed to a pure and silky white, and 

H3 


A SOCIAL LION 


the crow’s-feet around his mouth and eyes turned 
decorously down, giving to his pale face a continual 
expression of repressed pleasure and enjoyment not 
unpleasant to behold. His little feet and hands never 
grew knotty, and his knuckles were delicately dim- 
pled. His voice was whisperous, at times almost 
musical, while his unmistakably watery blue eyes only 
showed their pale weakness occasionally from under 
his slow and modest white lids. A singularly sweet 
expression had the doctor at times, except when you 
examined him sensitively. If you were so imprudent 
as to do that, you were very liable to say “Ugh!” sud- 
denly, and shake yourself, though not able to explain 
why. 

But most of the ladies of Snippington’s congrega- 
tion were not sensitive in that way. St. Matthew’s 
drew the most fashionable congregation in the city, 
and though “nerves” are very prevalent among the 
devotees of the Episcopacy and Wirth, I have never 
observed that their feelings are finer than those of 
ordinary people. It was, however, a notable fact 
that the smooth-faced, smooth-haired young men scat- 
tered about among the feminine worshipers were 
hardly to be seen there two Sundays in succession. 
They changed with the weeks, but it made no differ- 
ence, as they had evidently been brought along only 
as adjuncts to the latest thing in church wraps, and 
because they did nicely to hold the pretty prayer-book, 
and to hunt out the hymns and the litany. Indeed, 
Snippington would have done poorly enough had it 
not been for his ladies. He loved his ladies — partic- 
ularly the younger ones. And also, he loved their 


144 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 


attentions and invitations. Besides, it is a rector’s 
imperative and pleasant duty to visit his parishioners 
at regular intervals, and if you have but few poor in 
your parish, why, it is not disagreeable. And if you 
happen to drop in upon one or two of your most valued 
members near dinner time — parish duties keep one 
out late sometimes — being requested to partake of the 
meal, it will not be out of place, after a suitable pause, 
to accept, taking care to make the blessing beautifully 
fervent, and remarking upon the excellence of the 
bread, if there is bread. 

Titus Emollitus Snippington had come into life as 
plain “Snip. ” And he had not been baptized even by 
that brief cognomen, for which in after years he 
became duly thankful. He had been born in the 
County Hospital, and for his first four years the State 
Orphan Asylum had been his home. Here he came to 
merit from his companions the appellation “dirty 
Snip,’’ while to the matron and some of the attend- 
ants he was known as “that dear boy,’’ was patted 
on the head for his excellent behavior, and occasion- 
ally treated to an extra dish of dessert. Thus, even as 
early as this did he lay the principles to which he 
clung so consistently in after years. 

Such a pattern model in the establishment did 
Snip become that at length his reward was given him. 
A lady in deep mourning came to visit the building, 
and before presentation the children all had their faces 
scrubbed and their heads smoothed down with a par- 
ticularly scratchy brush, Snip bearing it patiently, only 
twice relieving his feelings by pinching the child next 
him in the line, and not being found out. And when 

i45 


A SOCIAL LION 


the lady, having eyed all the children carefully with 
her lorgnette, whispered a word into the matron’s ear, 
that good woman nodded and called Snip away to a 
side room, where he stood like a small saint while the 
ladies talked him over interestingly. The conversation 
and questions which followed, and in which Snip con- 
ducted himself with unusual precocity, eventually put 
an end to his asylum life, at which all the children 
heartily rejoiced. He had been adopted by two 
respectable elderly people in place of their own boy, 
who had lately died. Snip’s new father was a good 
old man, not bright, but with an extreme fondness for 
the classics, which hobby was responsible for Snip’s 
metamorphosis into Titus Emollitus Jones. 

Young Titus took to his surroundings like a cork 
to a bottle. He exhausted four nurses during the 
first six months'of his new career, and it was a curious 
fact that not one of these attendants could tell just 
why she felt unable longer to continue in the place. 

“I don’t know why it is, ma’am,” said the last one 
upon leaving. ‘‘I can’t just explain it, but Master 
Titus is so wearin’ on a body. He ain’t ailin’ as I can 
see. It isn’t that he’s fretty like. He jest does 
pester and annoy me so all the time that I declare 
after a day with him I feel more ready for my coffin 
than my bed !” 

Naturally this vague explanation, which had been 
given in substance by each of the attendants, failed 
to convince Mrs. Jones of [any fact except that ser- 
vants were becoming distressingly lazy, and that poor 
Titus must be having a hard time with the careless 
girls. So, being tired of changing about, she decided 

146 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 


to take charge of him herself. This arrangement did 
not please the boy. His nature had more difficulty 
now in working itself out. Children of poverty gen- 
erally possess doubly sharpened instincts as to where 
their own advantage lies, and Snip had always been 
particularly remarkable for this trait. He had no 
intention of showing out his own warped, crabbed, 
wicked little nature to her who had put him into a 
comfortable station in life. Therefore he was driven 
to the expedient of deceit for deceit’s sake, which 
habit never afterward died within him. So he grew 
up to manhood as rather a comfort to his adopted 
parents than otherwise. But I do not believe that 
this was anything to the credit of Snippington’s heart. 

I It was not for the sake of the old couple that he 
! walked apparently in the other and straighter path, 

' but for his own vanity and love of respect. When, 
at the age of sixteen, he was asked by his father what 
profession he would choose, he considered for some 
time, and finally replied, “The Church. ’’ His parents 
were pleased at the answer, and from that time he 
steadily pursued the necessary studies. He was 
ordained without difficulty, and his first sermon was 
a marvel of pure old fire and brimstone. Since then 
he had grown more lenient, as fashion made leniency 
both pleasant and expedient. 

Before becoming entitled to the Reverend before 
his name, however, a slight change had taken place in 
his fortunes, and the name itself was changed for the 
second time. His adopted father and mother died 
within a year of each other, leaving not one incon- 
venient relative to mar the pleasant prospect of their 

H7 


A SOCIAL LION 


pretty fortune, which would henceforth yield up some 
thousands annually into the hands of the complacent 
Snip. But as the young man turned over his future in 
his mind there was one blot upon the fairness of its 
near perspective — the name of Jones. What great 
distinction would ever be gained by a Jones? What 
company of celebrated people could ever have their 
luster increased by the addition of a Jones? — a Rever- 
end Titus Emollitus, to be sure, but still a Jones. 
What was there to prevent his becoming something 
else? Jones would not do. It was known that he 
had been but an adopted son, and there would be no 
difficulty in his going back to his original name. His 
fortune was secure. What his earliest name had been 
Titus did not know, but he could remember, though 
he did not like to, that short sobriquet of asylum days. 
In the end the young divine had a new set of cards 
engraved, bearing the imposing inscription of “Titus 
Emollitus Snippington, ” and later was added Reverend 
before the name, and “Assistant Rector of St. 
Matthew’s Church’’ after it, in a lower coner. After 
this Snippington felt that he lived. 

His rise upon the social world was rapid and sure, 
for Snippington had secured the dubious starting point 
and the devious pathway of his earlier career from 
the knowledge of his coolly polite acquaintances. As 
the first years passed, and he grew more high church 
and more hypocritical, young Snippington’s income 
increased. He saw people turn toward him less coldly 
after the “assistant” had come off his cards. He 
became familiarly “Snippington” to such men as 
Courtenay, and “dear Mr. Snippington” to their 

148 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 


wives, and heaven knows how he rejoiced at the words 
and the tones! Finally, to crown all, two letters were 
added to his title, which were alike — the fourth of the 
alphabet. 

Snippington had been early enough in the church 
to have watched the kindling of the social fame-fire of 
a man whose name he had heard sometimes in the 
early days — Herbert Stagmar. But he did not know 
that the only woman he had ever pretended to care 
for was that man’s lawful wife. For this knowledge 
he would have given half his fortune, for if half of 
Snip’s character was ambition, the other half was 
jealousy. And he was bitterly — nay, murderously 
jealous of Herbert Stagmar. He fawned upon the 
author, called upon him, sent invitations to and 
accepted them from him, but he never discovered the 
weak point in the glittering armor. Herbert Stagmar 
went on, the flames of his great name rose higher and 
more high, until Snippington cried out despairingly to 
himself that the fire which had already illumined a 
continent would never be quenched by aught save the 
deluge of death. The divine was mistaken, but he 
did not know it, for with Stagmar as a rival he had no 
chance himself of luring the fickle maid called Glory 
to his own side. He contented himself badly, there- 
fore, with afternoon tea, with his ladies and the toler- 
ance of Helen Howard. 

Before he had come to know her well enough to 
grow angry with her, Snippington’s relation with La 
Caralita had been the one softening influence of his 
life. His affection for this woman approached the 
unselfish. But she, too, palled upon him in time, 


149 


A SOCIAL LION 


although he could never break with her altogether. 
He lacked strength for this. It was now eight years 
since he had seen her for the first time. Those were 
before the days of fashionable vaudeville, and such 
houses were the only ones which the Reverend Titus 
could with any degree of safety frequent. In some 
ways his cloth was unfortunate. Even then his little 
penchant for the mimic world was known to all the 
men of his acquaintance. They took it for granted, 
as they did certain others of his habits, and abstained 
from mentioning these facts to their wives. Such is 
the loyalty of men to each other. 

Ardor had led Snippington to take upon himself 
the fearful risk of an introduction to the dancer. And 
out of the shadow of this risk he never lived. Helen 
had in no wise exaggerated when she said that the 
minister would have been capable of killing her were 
their connection made known. For Helen had not 
forgotten the demoniacal rage with which this man 
had first heard of the existence of Philip. She had 
then barely escaped with her life. What he would do 
were his whole reputation pulled down she dared not 
think. But, as the boy grew up with seemingly noth- 
ing of his father in him, Helen had come to care 
enough for the child to make Snippington at least 
provide for him, and that royally. But as for loving 
him, or thinking of him as in any way connected with 
that other child, her daughter, her darling of dreams 
and hopes — never! She pitied the boy, inasmuch as 
the freedom and joy of life seemed forever lost to 
him. But after that one disastrous Easter Sunday 
when he had sung at St. Matthew’s, when the child’s 

150 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 


angelic voice had stirred every heart in the building, 
when the son had moved the congregation as the 
father had never hoped to do, it was not possible that 
the boy of a single name should ever be permitted 
such 'a course again. La Caralita that afternoon 
endured such an explosion of rage and torrent of 
abuse as to force a sudden hate into her heart for the 
miserable little being who had caused her another 
spasm of wretched regret for a life that lay so far — 
far behind. 

On the night of Mrs. Hamilton’s dinner Snipping- 
ton had received two shocks, one coming so closely 
upon the other that he was not able fully to realize 
their combined import until later. The first was the 
announcement of the existence of Stagmar’s niece — 
the young lady whose name was Howard. Snipping- 
ton had heard the deliberate words of the man he 
hated with a kind of admiration for the writer’s cool- 
ness. But at the same time his little brain was filled 
to bursting with a hope, an idea, a plan which, if it 
could be brought to an issue, would bring about the 
one thing which above all others he longed to see 
accomplished — the ruin of Herbert Stagmar. If he 
or any one else could successfully circulate a certain 
story of Joan Howard’s origin — a simple thing, seem- 
ingly — this “niece” was forever downed, and Stag- 
mar— joy! — Stagmar with her. The minister leaned 
back murmuring ecstatically to Edith Kent, his head 
dizzy with plans. 

Now Snippington caught half a dozen jibing words 
from Dr. Kent that turned him sick, and brought his 
frail little scandal-house tumbling about his ears. 
151 


A SOCIAL LION 


That story of Helen Howard! Good God! Why 
had he so imperiled his position? He caught Stag- 
mar’s eyes upon him, and writhed in his chair like a 
lizard. Was it possible that anything was known? 
He could scarcely frame the question to himself. His 
whole nature cried out in protest. The remainder 
of the dinner was torture to him. So distressed 
was he that he could not leave the house under 
suspense of suspicion. His tongue ran away with 
him, and yet it was more a challenge of the eye 
than of the lip that he gave to Stagmar as they raised 
their glasses together. And the author took his chal- 
lenge gallantly, and gave back as severe a one. Snip- 
pington fell. You have seen how he toasted the 
choir-boy. As he left that room his head swam. He 
was discovered. Was he discovered? No, no! 
He would not have it so. But his step was unsteady 
when he left the house, and as the hot breath fled from 
his lips into the cold November night, he shuddered, 
for he remembered some of the words of his first ser- 
mon, and he prayed that there might be no hell for 
him, but rather oblivion forever. 

It was not until the night of her debut that he met 
Joan Howard. The thought of her was repugnant to 
him, but he neither dared nor cared to refuse the invi- 
tation to Stagmar’s house. So Joan Howard stood 
before him, and with the first gleam of her red hair 
there fell upon him the conviction that there would be 
no lie in the story of whom she was. The very idea 
of his danger made him shudder. He was perceptibly 
startled, and yet angry, too, as he felt his host’s scorn- 
ful eyes upon him. He failed to note how much hol- 

152 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 


lower and more deeply burning those eyes had become 
of late. And he clenched his little white hand until 
it shook with rage at his impotence. What a chance 
had been lost to him through his weakness. To have 
it in his power to ruin the man he hated, and to 
have the words stopped on his tongue, frozen with 
fear for himself! Ah! — “Dear Mrs. Hamilton, how 
radiant — radiant you are to-night!” 

Never for an instant did Snippington consider the 
possibility of proclaiming Stagmar’s guilt at the 
expense of his own reputation. He was not great 
enough for that. And if he had been told that even 
had he exposed the writer, there stood little chance 
of Stagmar’s retaliating upon him, he would have 
smiled incredulously. Such magnanimity was beyond 
his ken. 

One more incident in this man’s career and a dis- 
agreeable chapter will be closed. 

About one year before the appearance of Joan 
Howard in the city, and before Snippington had the 
least idea that a certain few of his doings were incon- 
veniently well known to a certain few of his acquaint- 
ances, he had turned over in his mind the idea of 
taking unto himself a lawful wife. He had begun to 
grow weary of his life in a fashionable boarding-house. 
He had cast his eyes about and seen other brethren 
of the cloth comfortably, even luxuriously installed in 
pleasant homes — in quarters not so select as the one 
which he should choose for his residence — finding 
great solace in the companionship of wives — neither 
so pretty nor so wealthy as the one he would wed — 
and perhaps rejoicing in a couple of children — neither 

i53 


A SOCIAL LION 


so quiet nor so clean as those which should some day 
bear his name. (And in this last vision the Reverend 
Titus succeeded in barring out all memory of that 
white-faced little boy to whom he denied a name.) 
These dreams proved such a comfort in lonely, fire-lit 
hours that Snippington was in no great hurry to 
exchange them for reality. Nevertheless, he looked 
about, and considered many a possible candidate for 
the fortunate position of Mrs. Titus Emollitus. An 
actual decision upon this point was not so long in 
coming as he might have liked. He did not care to 
choose a debutante, and among those girls a trifle 
older there was but one who seemed in every respect 
of family, worldly provision, and personal beauty to be 
entirely fitted for the place. This young lady was Edith 
Kent. To be sure, he knew of that partial arrange- 
ment between the Van Alyns and Kents regarding 
Malcolm and Edith, but at this he raised his sharp 
little shoulders pleasantly, and had everything about 
that settled perfectly in his own positive mind long 
before he spoke. Poof! What could stand in the way 
of his own income, position, more mature and there- 
fore safer years, and — ahem ! — his own personal 
appearance. What say ye, oh gods and philosophers 
of old, as to man’s vanity? 

Understand from the first, please, that Snippington 
did not love her. His respect for her and her dowry 
was too great to admit of there being in it anything 
of that feeling which was his conception of love. To 
him, love meant Helen Howard, and since love was 
troublesome at times, it was as well not to have the 


i54 


THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A RELIGION 


mischievous god in his everyday household. Mutual 
esteem would be infinitely more becoming. 

Betimes, when the minister had reflected long 
enough he grew impatient to have his wooing over 
with. Therefore he chose out a day when the doctor 
and his wife were certain to be at home. The after- 
noon he spent at La Caralita’s apartment, making 
himself very agreeable, and presenting her with a 
large bouquet of orchids. He had not seen her for 
some time, and the hours passed quickly in her pres- 
ence. Then, returning to his rooms, he dined, dressed 
carefully, and at nine precisely rang the bell of the 
Kent’s mansion in very good humor with himself and 
all the world. The doctor was at home. There was 
company in the drawing-room. Would he be an- 
nounced? No; he would see Dr. Kent alone. Very 
well, kindly wait in the study. Five minutes later 
the doctors confronted each other. 

When Snippington found himself face to face with 
the genial, open-faced little man whom he had pur- 
posed making his father-in-law, the glib words in his 
mouth suddenly seemed less ready to fall out. His 
mind was a trifle less clear. He even began stam- 
meringly, but he found himself again with the sound 
of his own voice, and what he had to say went on and 
finished as eloquently as he would have desired. He 
smiled to himself and stroked his knees and studied 
the pattern of the rug. He set forth his request and 
his reasons for it in well-satisfied, pleasant tones, with 
not too much ardor in them, as became his dignity. 
Unluckily he did not see the face of Doctor Jim. 
Kent’s jovial smile had died away. His face flushed, 

i55 


A SOCIAL LION 


his hands moved restlessly, his spectacles fell un- 
heeded, he kept himself by main force from snorting 
aloud. Still the calm, even periods flowed on, just 
as they did in the short addresses on Sunday. The 
peroration was beginning with a passage on the beauty 
of Miss Kent. A moment more, and the doctor, who 
was well acquainted with the reverend’s private his- 
tory, rose. He was an honest man, was Jim, and it 
was hard to suppress his feelings. But this he did, 
knowing himself a gentleman. His voice trembled 
with just anger, and it sounded thinner than usual. 
What he had to say was little, but it was decisive. 
Snippington thoroughly understood by the time 
the other had finished, that if he had ever had 
any hopes of marrying Edith, the very apple of her 
father’s eye, he must renounce them now, hence- 
forth, and forever. The minister’s face was slightly 
tinged with red, his hands shook, and he emerged 
alone from the library, his thoughts in a whirl. He 
reached the door unattended, and as it closed behind 
him, Jim Kent, in the library beyond, breathed out a 
great sigh of relief, and rested his head for a moment 
upon his two arms. Then, with a strong effort he 
returned to the guests in the drawing-room, and 
laughed off the visit of the defeated rector. 

Mrs. Kent never heard of the affair, and needless to 
say, Edith was as ignorant of it as her mother. 
Therefore, neither one was surprised that Snipping- 
ton accepted their invitation to a dinner in the follow- 
ing week, and Jim, knowing the minister, was not 
surprised, either. 


CHAPTER X 


MANCEUVERS IN WHEAT, AND A PROBLEM IN 
HONOR 

One early December day Bromler Van Alyn and 
his son-in-law walked up town together. Van Alyn 
was always pleased to find Courtenay in a business 
mood, as he was to-day. Bromler Van Alyn and 
“business” — his business — were synonymous terms. 
He worked at insurance all day, he took it to lunch 
with him, he carried it home and out to dinner, and 
at night he dreamed of it. When Van Alyn ceased 
for one entire hour to think of insurance, it would 
only be because his body was being prepared for the 
stately family vault. However, other lines of money- 
making were not unacceptable to him in the way of 
conversation. They all smacked of business, and he 
had a decided fondness for a little turn at the Board 
of Trade himself occasionally. 

Courtenay was in a serious mood this morning, and 
he was not talkative. His father-in-law did his best 
to draw him out, but unsuccessfully. The conversa- 
tion was whirled from one topic to another with allur- 
ing irrelevancy, but without result. Robert would 
come out of his study for a moment, ask a question 
or two, and then fall back again into oppressive 
silence. And in very truth Courtenay had good reason 

i57 


A SOCIAL LION 


for serious thinking just now, for his affairs had 
reached a state which began, even to him, to portend 
failure — imminent, complete, overwhelming. The 
income from his investments, which brought him in 
but a scant three thousand a year, together with his 
bank account, was already more than pledged as 
margins for several enormous wheat ventures which 
had gone badly with him in the fall. It now wanted 
,but a few days to the delivery of December grain, of 
which he was supposed to own some hundreds of 
thousands of bushels. Wheat stood now at some- 
thing like a dollar twenty, and unless during the next 
day or two the price went down like a falling star! — 
Courtenay whistled softly to himself, and buttoned his 
coat tightly about his slender figure. Also, Herbert 
Stagmar held some bits of paper bearing his, Cour- 
tenay’s, signature, together with three capital letters. 
There were ten, eleven — thirteen of them, and for a 
thousand each. All Sinners’ had appeared unpleas- 
ant to him for the last fortnight. For to Robert 
Courtenay these unpayable debts of honor, so-called, 
were things more serious than margins of six figures 
in the same condition. He pictured his wife in tears 
and a last year’s gown, and himself without a decent 
pair of gloves. That was nonsense, of course. There 
were always his wife’s family, and his own credit, to 
fall back upon; but his wife’s fortune? Ah! where 
was that? Courtenay shook himself. These thoughts 
were both disagreeable and useless. He permitted 
himself to be distracted by a remark from his com- 
panion : 

“Can see the top of your elevator from here, Bob. 
158 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


They’re not such good investments as they were at 
one time, are they?” 

“No, sir. Even a big pull with one of the railroads 
scarcely makes them worth the wood they’re built of. 
I haven’t paid any attention to mine in a long while. 
It’s been empty all the fall.” 

“That’s bad, Bob. You should look after it. 
Holds a goodish bit of grain, I should say. I’ve the 
insurance for three-quarters its value.” 

“It will hold three million bushels. It was fifth 
largest in the city when I bought it, but it has never 
paid. ” 

Here the conversation dropped, and a moment 
later the two men separated. Courtenay went on 
slowly. His thoughts had been turned into a new 
channel, and the germ of a stupendous scheme was 
being conceived in his mind. His gait grew more and 
more careless, his chin sank to his breast, and as his 
meditation became more profound the color in his 
usually pale face deepened to a flush. It was twenty 
minutes before he reached his broker’s, and entered 
the office still in a preoccupied manner. 

The men of the Board of Trade were excited and 
uneasy that morning. Some one was buying heavily. 
There were rumors of an attempt to corner the mar- 
ket, which same rumor was indignantly denied by 
others. Courtenay’s sole hope lay with the latter 
faction, for wheat must be brought down by the week 
of delivery. Then came the whisper that Stagmar 
was closing for two millions at one twenty-two, and a 
million more at twenty-two and five-eighths — enormous 
prices! If Herbert Stagmar were beginning one of 

i59 


A SOCIAL LION 


his stupendous operations, there would be little chance 
for the bears. He was feared too much for any 
attempt to hold against him on the part of other 
speculators, who would all sell rapidly for the best 
figures obtainable, only keeping prices as high as 
possible for the time. It was the general idea this 
time, however, that Stagmar was overreaching him- 
self. Surely no profit could be made on grain pur- 
chased at nearly a dollar and a quarter. Former suc- 
cesses had made the man reckless. Courtenay talked 
of these things, and thought of them and of himself. 
He saw the future dark before him. There was one 
thing that might be done, and at the thought of this 
thing the drops of sweat stood out upon the brow of 
the ruined man. Yes, there were two things to be 
done — there was suicide and this other. But Cour- 
tenay clung to his life. This seemed too small a 
thing to take it for. And Life had played to him 
good-naturedly all along. How would it be hence- 
forth? He shuddered. 

The offices of Stephens & Whitby were becoming 
crowded with men whom Courtenay knew well enough 
to treat civilly. He left the rooms abruptly. It was 
a sharp relief to be rid of the eagerness of men’s 
voices and the incessant click of the private wire. 
However much he fought against it, he must think. 
That one thing that could be done had taken complete 
possession of his mind. A dastardly thing it was, and 
a dangerous one. One that would not prevent 
ultimate disgrace, but which would stave it off, stave 
it off long enough for him to wipe out those debts of 
honor, and then be off — off, God knows where, only 

160 


\ 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


far enough to escape consequences. Could it be 
done — should it be done? For an instant Courtenay 
covered his face with his hands, and when he raised 
his head again his countenance was firm and immov- 
able. He had decided. 

He stood now on the floor of the Board of Trade, 
with a mob of howling men about him, whom he 
scarcely heard. It had taken but one moment to 
decide his course, but it must take more than that to 
complete his plans. The means — the means to a 
revolting end! Here lay the difficulty. Money was 
necessary. Money, money for money, money for life, 
for happiness, for everything in this wretched world! 
It is hard to be an upright, dishonest gentleman. But 
such people there must be sometimes. Courtenay 
was thankful for an idea which could help him to act 
out his part a little longer. And now, in accordance 
with that role he joined a jovial party of acquaint- 
ances who were repairing to a neighboring hotel, 
wherein they rented a private room in which lunch 
was served to them daily. Business men were they 
all, and nervous with anxiety over affairs of the day 
on ’Change. 

“How are things now?’’ inquired a lawyer who had 
not seen the reports for a couple of hours, as they 
entered the office of the Grand Pacific. 

“Wheat is jumping around like h — gasped a 
small man in a red tie, who had lately covered several 
sheets of paper with calculations of a debt resulting 
from ten minutes of rash haste, and which ran well up 
into five figures. “It’s ten minutes since I left 
Stephens’, and the Lord knows where it is now.’’ 

161 


A SOCIAL LION 


“It’s Stagmar,” explained young Garth. “He’s 
the fellow. They say he’s had three millions already 
this morning, and is trying to bring wheat down to 
one twenty for another.’’ 

“Stagmar?’’ asked Courtenay, joining them at the 
elevator. “I’ve just sent a boy to hunt him up to 
ask if he’s going to lunch here to-day. Every man in 
town’ll be after him.’’ 

There was a chorus of approving exclamations, and 
then the little man continued the former conversa- 
tion. “He can’t do it. He can’t bring wheat down 
again. They won’t let it be done. They are going 
to fight him hard this time to keep him outside. 
They haven’t forgotten two’ years ago. Why, you 
remember, he — ’’ 

“He ruined half the bucket-shops in town,” inter- 
rupted the lawyer dryly, “and a d — d good thing, 
too. Stagmar is stiff, but an honest man’s all right 
with him. He’s game for fight this time, though. I 
saw him this morning, and the Old Nick is in him.” 

“How far will wheat go, think, Garth?” inquired 
Courtenay, languidly. Robert cared less about its 
possible rise now than he had for months. 

“How far will it go, Bob? The Lord knows. I 
don’t believe Stagmar will buy at over one twenty- 
five, and if it were anybody but Stagmar I’d say he was 
a fool to do that. ” 

“Stagmar is a fool, though,” announced the law- 
yer, belligerently. Then he added, eyeing Courtenay 
closely, “It is my opinion that for the next ten days 
wheat is going to move on up rapidly.” 

Courtenay knew very well the motive for this 
162 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


speech, as did every other man at the table. There- 
fore, putting on his most bored, blas£, and careless 
manner he remarked, drawlingly, “Good time to buy 
outright, eh? And sell again next week.” 

“Humph ! None so easy to sell high after delivery, 
even if stuff does stay up, for the reason that a good 
many fools aren’t going to be able to make their 
margins good, and are going to go under completely, 
which is bound to tighten the market,” retorted the 
lawyer, irritably. He wanted to make Courtenay 
wince, but the young man did not move a muscle. 
The others laughed inwardly at his smiling tone, 
“No! Really? How silly of them!” 

By this time the steak had been brought in, when 
a sudden sharp signal from the telegraph in the cor- 
ner of this private room brought Garth quickly to its 
side and the rest to their feet. The next moment 
there was a mad rush to the wire at the young man’s 
hysterical exclamation: “By the Lord above! either 
I or the market has gone mad! Here’s wheat regis- 
tered at one nine, and still falling!” 

Courtenay’s knife clashed to his plate, the lawyer 
had already seized the narrow strip of paper, and the 
small man made a wild run for the door, bringing up 
in the arms of a tall, stalwart form just coming in. 

“Well, gentlemen, you seem excited,” said Stag- 
mar, smilingly. 

There was utter silence for a moment. The small 
man came quietly back to the table. Then Garth 
asked, slowly, going nearer to him: 

“Is this true, Herbert? Is wheat at one nine?” 

“You should complain of your reports, my dear 
163 


A SOCIAL LION 


fellow. They send them to you too slowly. Wheat 
must be now at one twelve at least, I should say.” 

“Courtenay rose again. “What do you mean? It 
is not going up again?” 

“It is, though,” replied the lawyer, in a dazed 
fashion, as he scanned the paper strip. “This says 
one eleven and an eighth.” 

“Tell us about it, Stagmar; we’re fools,” implored 
the little man. 

“Indeed, your lunch may have proved costly to 
some of you,” responded the great man, gravely. He 
sat down to the table and talked as he ate. 

“You are evidently not aware of some of those 
things which the Board has been finding out during 
the last half hour or so, and if you will permit me, I 
will relate them to you. The day’s circumstances 
have really been rather remarkable, and I beg you to 
believe that if they have run in my favor it has been 
purely chance, not design. Early this morning the 
rumor ran that some one was buying heavily in wheat. 
That was wrong. I do not account for the story, but 
the fact is that I myself purchased two million bushels 
of corn — not wheat.” 

“The devil!” 

“Jove!” 

“The Lord forgive you, Bertie, I won’t.” 

“Naturally, when that fact got abroad wheat went 
down at a bound, and I as naturally began to buy. It 
was an excellent chance, and I have, I believe, owing 
to the excellent management of my brokers, secured 
by now something like three million bushels at between 
one nine and eleven.” 


164 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


The little man rose hurriedly at this point. Stag- 
mar looked at him good-naturedly, saying, “Sit down, 
my dear man; I assure you that by the time you 
reach a place of business grain will be precisely where 
it was this morning.” 

The small man sat down. 

“But I don’t understand at all,” objected Garth. 
“Stephens & Whitby—” 

“Stephens & ^Whitby are mot my brokers this 
time. I am with Wells & Lake, a firm almost un- 
known. I should never vouch for reports from other 
houses under these circumstances.” 

“And so there .is to be no corner after all,” 
remarked the lawyer in an off-hand manner. 

Stagmar smiled blandly through him, and rubbed 
? his chin. Only Courtenay caught the look of under- 
1 standing in his eyes. 

“Well, it is a great day, a great day,” said Garth, 

! rising. “And if I hadn’t been an idiot I might have 
had something to do with it. Anyhow, Stagmar, I 
' congratulate you on a great stroke of luck or bril- 
liancy or whatever it’s been. I must be off now, but 
not to Whitby’s. It is my lunch, please remember. 
Au revoir." 

The lawyer had less to say, and said it in a manner 
; less sincere. A moment later he was off with the other 
; at his side, and Courtenay was left alone with the man 
of the day. Stagmar’s lunch lay before him smoking 
; and barely tasted; Courtenay had pushed aside his 
I cup of cold, dead coffee, and a stain of the liquid 
was on the cloth near his hand. The food was sym- 
bolic of their fortunes. So also were their faces. To 

i6 5 


A SOCIAL LION 


a certain extent Stagmar was haggard, but his mouth 
was straight and firm, and his brows were bent earn- 
estly. Courtenay, for the first time in his life, per- 
haps, looked old, worn, dissipated, blue-white. His 
shoulders were hunched high, and his head was drawn 
down between them. He moved his hands a little, 
aimlessly, because they shook. The two were silent 
for some minutes, Stagmar scrutinizing his compan- 
ion, Courtenay’s eyes wandering restlessly over the 
delicate walls and mirrors, the littered table, the 
rugged floor, the slightly soiled window panes, the 
telegraphic machine in the corner, which now clicked 
unheeded. Courtenay was nerving himself desperately 
to speak. Stagmar, reading his manner, helped him. 

“Well, Bob?” 

For an instant the younger man’s head dropped 
low, and when he raised it his eyes were hard. His 
opportunity had come; he would take advantage of it. 
His heels pressed hard upon the floor, but his voice 
was quiet. 

“Herbert, if you will, you can do — a great thing 
for me.’’ 

Stagmar nodded absently, and took mental note of 
the lowering of a man’s pride. He helped himself 
again to steak before he replied: 

“I am glad of it, Bob. What can I do?’’ 

“You know, Stagmar, just as every man in this city 
does know, that I am in a bad way pecuniarily just at 
present. But I fancy that not one of them has an 
idea of just how bad. The fact stands that unless I 
can obtain a certain amount of ready money before 
the end of the month I am ruined absolutely.’’ 

166 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


Stagmar’s face was more serious now, and he 
studied the table for a moment before replying. “I 
see, Courtenay; and I’m glad you came to me about 
it. I must be frank with you, too, however. I do 
not intend saying anything about it, naturally, but the 
deal this morning I am going to try to make the 
beginning of a corner. I think that I can see my 
way clear to a big profit by May, from the way a mere 
hint stirred these people up to-day. Naturally, then, 
my money is to be rather tied up for the next few 
months, and ready money is less plentiful this year 
than last. Anything up to ten thousand, however, I 
can let you have at once, and more later very pos- 
sibly. As for those gambling notes, if they worry 
you in the least, I shall be glad to burn them 
to-night.” 

At the end of this speech Courtenay laughed 
wretchedly. Stagmar’s ready generosity was infinitely 
harder to bear than indifference. ‘‘My dear fellow,” 
he said, turning his eyes away, and with an unsteady 
note in his voice, “I’m not begging. I’m not asking 
charity, merely a favor. It isn’t so bad that I can’t 
pay debts of honor yet. It was merely this: I sup- 
pose that storage for your grain comes under your 
calculation of expenses. Perhaps you know that I 
have an elevator in the city which has been standing 
idle for a good while. It holds altogether about three 
million bushels of grain. It is a safe enough one. 
We can look it over together if you like. What I 
wanted was for you to store some of your wheat there 
while this deal of yours is on. The rent is all I shall 
need. ” 


67 


A SOCIAL LION 


Stagmar looked unfeignedly relieved. “By Jove, 
man! that’s as much of a favor to me as it can be 
convenient to you. The last time I went in for any 
amount of grain I had an infernal lot of trouble get- 
ting storage room enough. It was an actual fact that 
the men in the pit so looked askance at me that they 
were willing to go the length of bribing the warehouse 
owners to refuse me room in the hope that I should 
be forced to sell out. I was apprehending some 
trouble of the same sort this time; therefore your 
offer relieves me greatly. Let me thank you.’’ 

When he finished Courtenay’s face looked brighter, 
but he was still grave. “Nay, Herbert, I must thank 
you. Now, when do you wish to go over it with me?’’ 

Stagmar looked up with surprise in his face. 
“There is no necessity for that, my boy. I know the 
elevator, and that it is all right. Only have it pre- 
pared soon now for the grain, for my shipments are 
to be hurried through, and the place should be full 
by the twelfth. The rents and all the technical busi- 
ness will be settled by my brokers, you know. Be — 
no cigars, thank you — be easy on this score now, Bob, ! 
and if there is anything more — ’’ 

“Nothing, nothing,’’ said Courtenay, rising 
quickly with hand outstretched, “and bless you, old 
man,’’ he muttered. Then suddenly, as with an 
afterthought, Robert turned once more. “And by 
the way, you store wheat there, Herbert? I generally 
prefer — prefer it to corn.’’ 

“Oh, my corn is probably gone by this time, Bob. 
It is wheat that I am after.” 

But as Courtenay left the room with a nod of satis- 
168 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


faction, Stagmar glanced after him curiously. “Now, 
why should that have made any difference to him — 
wheat or corn?” The writer feed the attendant and 
hurried away once more to the Board of Trade. He 
had no time to waste that afternoon in conjecture 
over Courtenay’s idiosyncrasy. 

That third of December, men said, was one of the 
wildest days on ’Change that had been known in the 
history of the city. All the short, dark winter after- 
noon the lights in the great hall of the Board of Trade 
blazed high, vividly lighting up the seething, undulat- 
ing, intertwining mass of men rushing continually 
from one end of the room to the other, ankle deep in 
the litter of soiled and torn scraps of paper covered 
with promiscuous jottings of figures and letters unin- 
telligible to an outsider, but representing fortunes lost 
or won to the initiated. Here and there, near the 
whirling mob might be singled out a dozen white- 
lipped men, standing, paper in hand, writing rapidly, 
heedless of the clamor about them, only pausing 
occasionally to brush the trickling streams of tepid 
sweat from their cheeks. These are men who have 
stood upon this floor for their last desperate day, or 
else those who for the first time see before them a 
vision of life suddenly made livable. There is no way 
of distinguishing one type from the other. 

Though in a manner every one of these was 
fighting for himself alone, yet all of them were banded 
together in a central aim also. That object was to 
distinguish which men were agents of Herbert Stag- 
mar, and to put a stop to their negotiations. This 
was rendered very difficult, since none there knew the 

169 


A SOCIAL LION 


brokers who were this time acting for him. It was 
strange in what fear all these gamblers held this one 
man, but so it was. Two years before he had taught 
some of them what hunger meant, and none were 
anxious to have the lesson repeated. Wheat was high 
all afternoon, and though there were many buying, it 
was an unpublished fact that Herbert Stagmar was for 
the time out of the contest. Had this been known, 
there would have been such a drop that not a few 
fortunes would have fallen there on the spot. But 
the author himself appeared once or twice on the floor 
during the afternoon, and his addressing nobody was 
taken as a sign that his men were about him. In 
reality he was there only to study human nature. It 
was on this very floor that two or three of the writer’s 
best-known characters, and even the central theme of 
one of his books, had originated. And here, in this 
miniature epitome of life, the seer recognized before 
him every characteristic, vice, and virtue of his sex, 
save perhaps one, the greatest of them all. And 
nowhere did he feel himself so pleasantly alone as 
here, and nowhere was he better able to meditate on 
many things near to his nature. Such a thing is 
solitude in the midst of many. 

Stagmar’s mind was easy as he went homeward in 
the early evening. He had realized something near a 
hundred thousand on his corn in that one day, and in 
the great Northwest there stood to his credit three 
million bushels of wheat, which would be delivered 
within five days by train and boat to Courtenay’s ele- 
vator on the banks of the narrow river which floats 
so much wealth. 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


And Robert Courtenay? Yes, his work also was 
done. At a few minutes after three that afternoon, 
he and another, a tall, brawny, bearded fellow, with 
small eyes and a generous nose, and the dress but not 
the manner of a gentleman, unlocked the great door 
of the elevator, which swung back, creaking upon its 
hinges, for the first time in many months. The inside 
of the enormous place spread before and above them, 
gray, and musty, and uncanny, the sound of their 
voices echoing from the dim, cavernous aisles before 
them. The wintry light scarcely illumined the door- 
way. They stood together, these pigmy men, in the 
narrow passage, and saw, reaching far above their 
heads, the mammoth wooden bins. Rows of them 
stretched down the aisle before them, with a network 
of passages twining about them all. And above these, 
on towering platforms, were more still, apparently 
rising upwards hundreds of feet. Here and there, on 
the heights, stood tall ladders, unsteady and rotten 
from long disuse. 

Courtenay and his companion walked slowly down 
the passageway, pausing now and again at the sound of 
a rat or vagrant cat scurrying off into the darkness 
beyond, the magnified tapping of their feet making 
the two start apprehensively. At last Courtenay spoke, 
striving hard to keep the false strain out of his voice. 

“Now, understand thoroughly what I want, Dep- 
pel. You see there is so little coming in that I shall 
find it more convenient to use the short conductors. 
Therefore, kindly have the floors about eight feet 
from the top, and in all the bins. I can knock them 
out at any time, you know.” 

171 


A SOCIAL LION 


The big man nodded stupidly. “Of course,” he 
said, in thick German-English, “I zee dat it vill be 
easier for you dat vay. Te bins are de same size, I 
tink you sait? Veil, den, I measure dis one. For de 
rest it will not be necessary.” 

“And they must be in by the day after to-morrow, 
Deppel. Work at them day and night if necessary. 
The grain is to be delivered in four days.” 

“I zee; dey shall be done,” replied his companion, 
solemnly, as he knelt with a rule. 

Twenty minutes later the measuring was finished, 
and the two stepped again into daylight, the door of 
the great place banging heavily behind them. With a 
few more words the German hurried off to begin his 
work. Courtenay, however, still lingered by the side 
of that celebrated little river that runs always thick 
and black with the refuse from the great city that 
hems it in. The gambler stood looking thoughtfully 
into the stream whose foul odor steamed unnoticed 
into his face. His expression was grim and hard, 
but in his eyes lay a sparkle of dread as he muttered 
slowly to himself : “It might be better. The end — dis- 
grace, banishment, is inevitable anyway. But with 
three millions — life might be livable anywhere with 
that!” 

With a fierce energy he turned and shook himself. 
His face was once more quietly determined as he 
sauntered slowly away. Twenty minutes later he 
entered a building the lower offices of which bore the 
sign, “Cantle Bros., Brokers.” 

“Good-day, Barker; Mr. Cantle in?” he said, 
addressing a clerk who seemed to know him. 

172 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


“Mr. Edward is not in, sir, but Mr. James is in his 
private office. I’ll ask if he can see you.” 

“Yes, take my card, Barker; it’s important.” 

Barker disappeared and came back a moment later 
with the request that Mr. Courtenay go in to Mr. 
James. Courtenay nodded, and found his way 
unconducted into the private office of the Cantle 
Brothers. Mr. James was seated at his desk, twirling 
his pince-nez on a ribbon, as his patron entered. He 
was an open-faced, frank sort of person, with a man- 
ner slightly brusque, and a smile a little stilted, but 
had you known nothing of him previously you could 
hardly have guessed from his face that this man had 
the reputation for being one of the sharpest, most 
unscrupulous and underhanded rogues that ever 
escaped the penitentiary. Few people came to the 
Cantle Brothers for everyday business. Their unher- 
alded fort was the doing of other people’s dirty work, 
and they were very apt, if not given the order for 
unwarranted methods by their momentary client, to 
take advantage of the opportunity for their personal 
benefit. It made no difference to them, just so long 
as there were laws to get around, who obtained the 
advantage in the deal, themselves or the other man. 
So were they constituted. 

Robert Courtenay did not appear as a stranger 
here. He seated himself without looking about, and, 
disregarding the other’s narrow smile of greeting, at 
once took from his pocket a small paper covered with 
figures, which he scanned for a few moments before 
speaking. The broker watched him in silence, wait- 
ing for him to speak. Courtenay rubbed his chin and 
i73 


A SOCIAL LION 


raised an eyebrow indifferently before beginning. He 
felt perfectly at ease and on his guard with this man. 

“I’ve a little commission for you in the New York 
wheat pit, Cantle. ’’ 

“Urn—” 

“There are two million two hundred and fifty 
thousand bushels to be sold outright, for delivery 
within two weeks, and they must not, under any con- 
ditions, be sold to Mr. Stagmar. ’’ 

“Um — not always easy to sell outright. I suppose 
you would go a little lower than the market, if neces- 
sary?’’ 

“Yes, if you have to.’’ 

“A — your wheat, Mr. Courtenay? That is, to be 
sold in your name?’’ 

Courtenay looked at him reflectively. “So you 
can do that now, eh?’’ 

“Certainly. It is very simple. I’ve made a dozen 
deals that way since October.’’ 

“Very well, then; not in my name. I suppose the 
commission is higher in that case?’’ 

“Two per cent. ’’ 

“You’re stiff, Jim.” 

“The risk must be paid for, you know.” 

“I realize that. Well, can it be done?” 

“I think so. If you want to escape Stagmar, it must 
go to Europe, though. I’ve no knowledge of his men. ’ ’ 

“So there’s one man too many for you, is there, 
Jim? Well, I’m glad to know it. It makes you so 
much more human.” 

Cantle smiled a trifle bitterly. “Yes, d — — him!” 
he said, softly, “I confess that. Selling to Europe, 

m 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


though, you couldn’t make delivery before the middle 
of January.” 

“That’ll do, provided it leaves here within six 
days. Understand?” 

“I do. There seems to be nothing difficult about 
this one. Now, your papers, receipts — red tape, you 
know. ” 

Courtenay looked at him with a gentle smile. 
“You fool,” said he; “I’ve no papers.” 

Cantle turned very serious. “This is too much, 
Mr. Courtenay.” 

“What? My calling you a fool? I beg pardon, 
Jim. I was utterly wrong.” 

The other laughed, then grew grave again. “It is 
a thing that we will do for very few people. You 
have the wheat?” 

“Naturally, my dear fellow, or I shouldn’t have 
waited so long before trying the game. I have the 
wheat. I look to see the work done up in good 
order.” 

“It is three per cent more. The papers are hard 
to manage. ” 

“Three more be it. Only leave me a little of the 
money, Cantle, I implore you. Yours is a good busi- 
ness. ” 

“No better than another, and the risk — wears 
upon one’s nerves. We’ll do this for you, though. 
But the case is unusual. I’d like to know what the 
devil — 99 

“Tut, Cantle, curiosity is imprudent— worse than 
the deal. It is irregular, of course, but no worse 
than others. ” 


US 


A SOCIAL LION 


Cantle bowed ironically, and rose as Courtenay 
opened the door. 

“Good afternoon.” 

“Good-day, sir.” 

That was all, and Courtenay stood upon the side- 
walk, his day’s work over, his breast heavy, and his 
head whirling dizzily. He put one hand over his 
eyes, and said, half aloud, “Can’t go home. Dinner 
there — faugh!” And he did not notice the woman 
who drew her child close to her side, saying, “That 
man’s drunk, Milly. Keep close to me.” 

***** 

Horace Chatsworth was at work in his studio, 
anxiously watching the sun as it fled from the face of 
his picture, and praying it, in pagan fashion, to stay 
up five minutes longer. He was painting a head, an 
ideal head, for which he had no model. It was life 
size, a white-faced, night-eyed, sad-mouthed being, 
whose gaze found its way to the depths of one’s heart, 
and lingered there. The white shoulders were care- 
lessly draped in deep-red, slightly embroidered in 
dark, purplish blue, and from this coloring the pure 
semi-transparence of the throat stood out like breath- 
ing marble. It was the best thing that the young 
artist had ever done, and he knew it. He smiled to 
himself at the thought of how he had come by the 
idea. It was Joan Howard’s Magdalene, just as she 
had described it to him, he imagined, but he also mis- 
takenly fancied that the face was a creation of his 
own. It was not. It was merely a portrait of a face 
which had lain in Chatsworth’s mind for some weeks 
past. 


176 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


His five minutes were gone now, and Horace sat 
before his picture, loth to cover it, even though he 
could paint no more for another twelve hours. He 
musingly contrasted this face which he loved with 
that of the yellow-haired creature now in Stagmar’s 
study — his first conception of the character. The 
room was almost dark. The little remaining light 
seemed all to have concentrated upon the pale, pure 
face of the pictured woman. At the side of the room, 
facing the canvas, a door opened noiselessly, and the 
soft, heavy steps of a man sounded on the rug, and 
then stopped. Chatsworth, unwilling to break this 
twilight charm, slowly turned his head over one 
shoulder — and found the spell only heightened. 
Robert Courtenay, bent, old, haggard, hardened, 
stood in the doorway, staring with wondering eyes at 
the face before him. As he gazed the tense muscles 
of his face relaxed, his expression softened immeasur- 
ably. One bare hand crept slowly to his throat, and 
lay there as though stifling a sound — a sob. A mo- 
ment later he reeled, and sank to a chair, speaking 
rapidly and wildly: 

“Joan! Joan! Joan’s face to reproach me — Joan’s 
eyes to haunt me — Joan’s lips to revile me — Joan, 
my Joan! to hate me, to curse me — to know — to 
know — ’’ 

Chatsworth lighted the gas, and came and took 
his friend by the shoulders. The touch stilled his 
quivering nerves. Then the artist drew his easel into 
a corner, and threw a long white cloth over the can- 
vas. Finally he came and stood before the visitor, 
who now appeared to be shaking with inward mirth. 

177 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Bob,” said Horace, with his hands in his pockets, 
“you’re drunk.” 

“No, I’m not,” cried Courtenay, jumping to his 
feet; “but I want to be. Bring your opium, Horace, 
opium, pipes, dreams, forgetfulness! Oh, but the 
thought likes me well!” 

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” observed 
Horace, stolidly. 

“Come, my boy, don’t you know me yet? Tired 
of doing the languorous. Feeling theatrical, struck by 
the beauty of Miss Howard’s portrait there — anything 
you like. ” 

“Miss Howard’s portrait?” queried Chatsworth, 
interestedly. “Why, you can’t mean that! That isn’t 
like her. It has brown eyes and hair — ” 

“Bother eyes and hair. It’s her portrait, I say, to 
the life, and, my boy, I’d give a thousand dollars for 
it, if—” 

“If?” 

“If I had the money — if — nonsense! Come, boy, 
don’t be slow. Pipes, I said, and opium!” 

Chatsworth obediently hunted them out, muttering 
the while at Courtenay’s assertion that the picture 
was like Joan Howard. The artist did not like the 
idea. 

Robert did not go home that night. The club also 
missed him. Until early morning he and the bohe- 
mian lay coiled Chinese fashion upon studio divans, 
each with a long, flat-bowled pipe between his lips, 
and a plate full of soft brown pellets beside him, 
dreamily watching the myriads of feathery rings float- 
ing from his mouth, and wafting away into the dark- 
178 


MANEUVERS IN WHEAT 


ness without. Visions, comforting, careless, unreal 
as the peace of heaven, beautiful as the peace of love, 
flowed through their brains. Only once during the 
long hours did they move. This was when Chats- 
worth, in a moment of delirium, rushed to throw the 
cloth from his picture, and Courtenay, leaping after 
him, stayed his hand with fierce reproach : 

“Let her be. Let Joan sleep there quietly. Do 
you think we are fit to look at her to-night?" 


179 


CHAPTER XI 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 

Helen Howard was ensconced in the little room 
which served her for parlor, boudoir, and dining-room 
together. Though La Caralita had, under the cir- 
cumstances, retained an unusually large coterie, still 
her following was naturally reduced after her retire- 
ment from the boards. She was not expecting visitors 
this afternoon, which was apparent from the fact that 
she wore a neglige of heavy white silk, that her tal- 
ented feet were perched on the arm of a chair, and 
that she was making an unattractive book the excuse 
for idle and unremunerative day-dreams. 

These last had been strange days for Helen How- 
ard, many of them filled with stormy rebellion at her 
helplessness, and others, as to-day, with a kind of 
whimsical resignation. Her accident had brought to 
her some things which she would not have cared to 
change, and one thing that she was willing to pay 
heavily for. Gradually her thoughts traveled back 
along old lines of memory, leading her to live again 
those months which fancy now made heaven. Her 
head drooped till it rested on one hand, and the book 
fell to the floor. She was roused from reverie a mo- 
ment later by the sound of a thick voice asking for her. 
Fifine entered from the ante-room, saying, nervously: 

1 8c. 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


“Mr. Courtenay, Miss Helen; but you ought not 
to see him. “ 

Helen rose. “You mean he is intoxicated? That 
is strange. I never knew him to be so before.’’ 

Her low-voiced sentence was scarcely finished when 
he himself entered. It was now six days since Cour- 
tenay’s interview with James Cantle, and during that 
time he had scarcely once been himself. All Sin- 
ners’ was astonished, shocked, and disgusted. There 
was some little talk of demanding his resignation, 
but the matter did not come to a head, for Cour- 
tenay was too great a favorite, drunk or sober, for 
that. His wife, who did not see him at all, was in a 
state of tearful anxiety. Most of the ladies who knew 
him thought him out of town, the older men were too 
busy to think of him at all, but Malcolm Van Alyn 
spent his nights in following this brother-in-law help- 
lessly from one drinking place to another, and his 
days in alternately concocting excuses for and cursing 
Courtenay’s inexplicable condition. To his credit be 
it stated that Robert kept as studiously away from 
his own kind as he could, lying alone during the day 
in a fantastic hiding-place, and at night resorting to 
places where he would never be known again. At 
first he had drunk to drown conscience and fear, for 
criminality did not sit easily upon his slender shoul- 
ders, but of late old habits of college days, when this 
sort of thing had not been infrequent, had returned 
to his clouded memories. 

This visit to a former fancy was merely the result 
of an impulse. He wanted a woman to talk to and 
look at, and she, only, appeared available. So he had 

181 


A SOCIAL LION 


come, although knowing that he was not sober, but 
concealing his condition as best he could. La 
Caralita’s attitude toward him — half amazement, half 
badly concealed distaste, was irritating, but he tried 
not to show it. 

“Si-it down, Hel-e-en,” he said, with an attempt 
at quiet authority. “I wanted to come to see — a — a — 
you, about s-s-s-something, but I c-c-c-cannot just at 
present recollect what it was. I have n-not been at 
all w-w-well this week. My head aches to-to-day. I 
wishshsh that I knew just exxxactly what I amm, or 
wish to say, but the fact is ththat grain deal hasss 
queered me so — you know abbbout that grain sttuff — 
Stagmar’s, you know — donnn’t you, Helen?” 

Helen, who had remained standing irresolutely by 
her chair, gave a slight start at the mention of her 
husband’s name, then sat quietly down. Courtenay 
did not notice her. His deep, bloodshot eyes made 
an attempt to open widely, but failed, and a moment 
later they closed, and he sat in a heavy sort of stupor. 
Helen leaned over and touched his arm. “You were 
speaking of Stagmar’s grain,” she said; “I have not 
been told the right story. Tell it to me, Bob.” 

The familiar nickname roused him suddenly. He 
had heard it but seldom of late. Helen’s eyes were 
fixed eagerly upon him. In truth her husband’s name 
had been like a draught of wine to her, even from 
this man’s lips. Slowly he began to speak, in broken 
phrases, it is true, but growing more connected and 
coherent as he continued. Line by line came the 
story of his great dishonesty, the criminality of it, the 
necessity for flight some time soon; but worse than 

182 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


all, the thing that shot into the woman’s heart like 
an arrow, was the revelation that Herbert Stagmar, 
the man she loved better now than life itself, was the 
one who was to suffer, who might be ruined, who 
surely would endure great loss. At the thought, the 
face of Robert Courtenay before grew loathsome to 
her. 

“Get up!’’ she cried, suddenly, seizing the man by 
his shoulders, “come, get up! I won’t have you here, 
near me! Fifine, help me! Make him go! Oh, God! 
Leave me alone — alone to think what must be 
done !’’ 

Courtenay lifted his head and started to his feet. 
Fifine hastened into the room, pale with fear at the 
tone of Helen’s voice. But there was no necessity for 
force. Robert, casting one look of amazement at the 
face of the infuriated woman, loosened his grasp on 
her arm and walked blindly from the room. 

With a nervous sob Helen Howard flung herself 
face down upon a couch, answering her maid’s ques- 
tions and entreaties only with the words that she must 
be alone to think. Fifine, the many-handed, was at 
length called away by the sound of sobs from Philip, 
the boy, who had been playing all this time silently in 
a neighboring room. Poor little one! He had need 
to cry sometimes, for sheer loneliness. 

So Helen was left alone to think, and plan she did 
for an hour, fruitlessly. Then all of a sudden her 
face grew bright. Quickly she rose and ran to the 
next room in painful eagerness: 

“Fifine! oh, Fifine! Order my dinner half an 
hour early, and I am going out at eight. I must have 

183 


A SOCIAL LION 


a carriage. Never mind the doctor. I am going, for 
I must. Oh, my dearly beloved! I can save you 
both!” 

Early on that same afternoon, at the time when 
Courtenay was driving toward the dancer’s rooms, 
Herbert Stagmar, on the other side of the city, was 
walking sedately up Michigan Avenue from Washing- 
ton Park to his own residence. His mind was 
absorbed in the proof sheets of his last book, which at 
this moment littered up the desk in his study, and in 
the first chapters of the new novel begun a few days 
before. He was behindhand with all his literary 
work, but this was the most awkward time possible 
for it to be coming in. His thoughts jumped swiftly 
to prices of wheat and corn and the fury of the 
Board of Trade, just as a smart brougham drew up 
beside him at the curb, and Mr. Van Alyn’s top hat 
protruded from the window as that gentleman ex- 
claimed : 

“Hi! Herbert! Going your way, my dear fellow; 
jump in and let me take you home. I want to talk 
to you. That’s it. ” 

Stagmar accepted the invitation unhesitatingly. 
He was tired of his thoughts, and bored at the idea 
of the mile he still must travel at the proper snail’s 
pace. 

“Your afternoon drive, sir?” asked the author, as 
he seated himself. 

“Well, no, not exactly. I’m out on business. By 
the by, it concerns you, too, in a way. It is Cour- 
tenay’s elevator. We renewed his policy a day or two 

184 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


ago, and passing the building yesterday I fancied 
that it was insured for something over its full value. 
It seemed rather an unstable affair. Being Robert’s 
was of course all the more reason why I should take 
particular pains to have everything impartially correct. 
I’m just running down to look it over. You have 
grain stored there, haven’t you?” 

“Yes; rather a good deal. Somewhere around 
three million bushels. Elevator’s full.” 

“Jove! Have you been down to look the place 
over?” 

“Oh, no. I never do that. My men see to it all. 
However, I shouldn’t care to feel the place wasn’t 
safe. Let me know what you think of it when you 
get back, will you?” 

“Certainly, Herbert, certainly. Or, better than 
that, come with me and see it for yourself, if you have 
time. ” 

Stagmar looked at his watch. He had much to do, 
and he did not wish to do it. “It is rather early,” 
he said, “let me see — yes, Bromler, I’ll come with 
you. I dare say there’s nothing the matter; it is only 
to put off some work that I’m not in the mood for, on 
my part; so we must believe that the matter is seri- 
ous.” 

Van Alyn laughed. “Well, I shall be glad to have 
your opinion over it. Your wheat was also insured by 
us, and the entire sum would make an unpleasant hole 
in our capital were it to go suddenly. We have an 
enormous business now, though, Herbert. It grows 
hourly almost. Van Alyn and Hamilton are names 
well known through the country from Maine to Cali- 
185 


A SOCIAL LION 


fornia. But our heading will be still prettier when 
we can make it ‘Van Alyn, Hamilton and Van Alyn,’ 
eh?” 

‘‘Oh, Malcolm! Is Malcolm going in with you?” 

‘‘Certainly, Herbert.” Mr. Van Alyn spoke with 
some asperity. ‘‘Malcolm is having his fling now, 
but he is to settle down in a year or so, marry — you 
know whom, of course — and will then become the 
youngest member of our firm. Augustus and I are 
both getting along, and by that time the business will 
need a young, fresh spirit to invigorate — its policies, 
if I may be allowed the liberty.” 

Stagmar smiled with great propriety, but grew 
sober again rather too quickly. Why must every one 
always be dragging Edith’s tacit engagement into 
conversation, he wondered. Van Alyn, however, was 
doing his best to be agreeable, and soon Stagmar for- 
got both himself and his wife in a most successful 
effort to be entertaining. Indeed, Van Alyn almost 
lost sight of their errand in the writer’s description of 
a recent letter from the wonderful little Dutchman, 
Maarten Maartens. ‘‘Her memory” became blended 
with the blind throngs of the business streets, the 
wholesale houses, the odor of coffee and spices, the 
clanging of car bells, and the diminishing roar of less 
frequented streets beyond. Now at length Cour- 
tenay’s elevator loomed up before them. The two 
men alighted at a little distance, and looked up at and 
around it critically. 

‘‘I don’t know, Herbert,” remarked Mr. Van 
Alyn, in a more satisfied tone. “Looks pretty solid, 
doesn’t it?” 


1 86 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


“From the outside, certainly,” responded Stag- 
mar. “Can we go inside? Have you a key?” 

“Oh, yes. I took care to bring one. Here, would 
you mind unlocking it for me? I must have a look at 
this section. ” 

Stagmar took the large key, and as the door swung 
open before them dropped it without thinking into his 
pocket, where it remained. Now the tremendous 
interior stretched out before them, the enormous bins 
reaching over their heads on either side of the narrow 
passageway down which they walked slowly. 

“Big place, eh, Stagmar?” said Van Alyn. 

“Yes. Naturally it would have to be. It is rather 
impressive.” 

“Not many larger in the city. I’ve been through 
nearly all of them, and know the lot pretty well. It 
used to be one of my duties — in the old days when I 
was merely Brom — to go around to these places and 
look them up. Ah! what was that?” 

Van Alyn had jumped suddenly as a large gray cat 
came trotting out of the darkness, brushing his leg 
and moving unconcernedly on towards Stagmar. 

“Pshaw! That creature startled me. Cat hasn’t 
much objection to strange people, has she? Suppose 
she belongs to the watchman. Courtenay must have 
one around here somewhere.” 

“There doesn’t seem to be any one around,” 
remarked the author, looking about him curiously. 
“I had an idea there were generally several people 
in one of these places.” 

“Oh, not necessarily — not necessarily,” replied 
Bromler Van Alyn, somewhat hastily. “I believe 

187 


A SOCIAL LION 


that a watchman is customary, and doubtless there is 
one at night, if not during the day. How long is your 
grain to be stored, by the way?” 

Stagmar shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I’m 
not sure. A month or two possibly. I pay down, 
you know, and sell when I choose.” 

“Good Lord, Herbert! You are a strange fellow. 
Where do you get it all?” 

“Oh, it about cleans me out for the time being. 
I’ve not made a grain deal in nearly two years, you 
know, and then it grew so big that I had to margin. 
But I invest little money. I like to handle it.” 

“You must. But you take frightful risks. Sup- 
pose wheat ducked for the rest of the winter?” 

“Then, my dear man, bread would come cheaper 
to the masses, and I might be half a million short, 
that’s all. If it grew more serious I know of certain 
methods whereby the price can be raised. It is only 
the resort of extremity, however.” 

“Then your whole fortune is sunk here, my boy?” 
asked the other with curiosity. 

Stagmar smiled down at his stick, and did not 
reply, while Mr. Van Alyn, flushing, said hastily, “I 
beg pardon, Herbert.” 

They had now reached the far end of the elevator, 
but their eyes, accustomed to the dim light, were able 
to distinguish objects fairly well. Van Alyn now 
mounted the ladder stairway that led to the bins 
above, in order thoroughly to finish his examination, 
while Stagmar, not caring to climb about in the thick 
dust in his Prince Albert coat and light trousers, 
remained below. Presently, as Mr. Van Alyn was 

1 88 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


disappearing into the darkness above his head, the 
author perceived the gray cat crawling between his 
own foot and the side of the nearest bin. He looked 
down at the animal only just in time to see it leap 
through a small hole in the bin. In an instant it was 
gone, but he could hear the patter of its claws on the 
floor inside. What did it mean? 

Stagmar knelt and thrust his hand into the opening. 
There was a hollow within, how large he could not 
tell. It was absolutely empty! There was no grain 
inside — nothing. Just then came Van Alyn’s voice 
from above: 

“Good stuff, this wheat, Herbert. It smells splen- 
didly fresh. I have just reached it. B You should 
come up and see it.” 

Stagmar rose quickly. “It is there, then?” 

“There! Why, of course. What else did you 
expect? Delivered a couple of days ago, wasn’t it? 
It’s as dry as 'possible up here. There is nothing off 
about the place, Herbert. I can safely say that my 
examination has been thorough.’’ Van Alyn began 
his descent. “It is solid, and well cared for. 
You and I are both quite safe. If three millions is 
little to you, it is a good sixth of our capital, and 
rather more. ’’ 

“Is my wheat insured full value, then?’’ 

“Almost. Your men are extravagant, Herbert. 
It really need not have been so much, and it costs 
you a pretty penny. However, we have no objec- 
tion.’’ 

“I suppose it is rather unnecessary to insure so 
heavily,’’ responded Stagmar, with a strange laugh. 

189 


A SOCIAL LION 


“However, if I do not watch those things closely 
enough, it is my own fault. And do you know, Van 
Alyn, it would have been more benevolent in me to 
have insured with smaller firms? You have enough 
profit without my ducats.” 

“You’re a queer chap, Stagmar. However, it 
might not be so benevolent if they should have to pay 
up three millions out of their small capital some day, 
would it? Your smaller concerns would go under, 
wouldn’t they?” 

“And yours would not?” 

The other shook his head. “It would hit us hard. 
I sometimes think we are fools to take some of the 
enormous risks that we have of late years. But do 
you know, Herbert, they constitute our biggest profits, 
and we have never yet lost by one of them. Yes, 
three millions would stagger us, but I don’t think it 
could knock us down. We are awfully steady, you 
know. ” 

They went forward to go out again. The after- 
noon was nearly gone, and the light failing rapidly. 
Van Alyn, ahead, stood for a moment in the open 
doorway. Stagmar, almost in darkness, stumbled 
against a bit of uneven flooring, and thrust his stick 
against the side of a bin to save himself. He started 
upright, and suppressed an exclamation as the sound 
echoed clear and hollow in his ears. Something was 
wrong here. It would be impossible to stop now with 
Van Alyn. But after he had locked the door and 
was following his friend back to the carriage, he took 
care to keep the key himself, and so to turn the con- 
versation on their homeward way that Van Alyn 
190 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


should not think to ask for it. Stagmar was resolved 
to look for himself. 

Joan Howard was somewhat aggrieved at her fath- 
er’s mood that night. They were to have gone 
together to a reception and a private view of a 
water-color collection, but during the soup course 
Stagmar informed his niece that he would be unable 
to go. Joan was disappointed. Chatsworth would 
undoubtedly have been at the art exhibit. And she 
enjoyed talking with him for the sake of hearing the 
gruff answers he was wont to give her untechnical 
questions, and then see the contradictory admiration 
in his eyes, which would not be repressed. Also 
Malcolm Van Alyn would be at the reception, and 
possibly Courtenay too. Courtenay she had not now 
seen for ten days, nor had she heard his name spoken 
by any one, and the longing within her to see and 
talk with him again grew greater every day. 
Besides these not unworthy reasons, she had been 
looking forward to wearing for the first time a daringly 
beautiful costume of her own planning, which — though 
she would have denied this — had been expressly 
planned to kill the color of Edith Kent’s latest dress. 
Therefore, in accordance with human frailty, as soon 
as she had been told that she could not go, she began 
to long more intensely than before for the question- 
able pleasures of rivalry and attention. By the time 
the fish had been removed, and her 'father was still 
brooding in silence, the stillness became so unbear- 
able that she spoke out her thoughts, regardless of 
Stagmar’s obvious irritability. 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Even if you cannot go to-night, I am sure that I 
could easily find some one to take me.” 

Her tone angered the author, who had been 
already sufficiently disturbed by his afternoon’s dis- 
covery. He broke off a piece of bread and crumbled 
it before he quietly replied: “It is possible that you 
might go with any one of half a dozen people. I 
knew that when I spoke. The fact remains that you 
will not go because I do not wish it.’’ 

Joan looked at him quizzically. She enjoyed quietly 
positive orders like this. They were akin to her 
nature, and she did not take offense at them. Her 
tact came back to her.. Her only reply was a tran- 
quil smile, which pleased Stagmar, and smoothed the 
pucker off from over his nose. Nevertheless, he said 
nothing, and his daughter felt that it behooved her 
to continue the conversation. 

“Uncle, I have been reading about you to-night.’’ 

Up went the author’s eyebrows. “About me? 
How, where?” 

“The Evening Post,” replied Joan, pushing back 
her plate and looking up. She was surprised to see 
him move restlessly in his chair, then say sharply, 
“Carson, bring me the Evening Post.” 

Joan was frightened at the dark flush that had 
risen on his face, and she dared not speak. The 
writer sat without lifting his eyes, nervously tapping 
his fingers on the table. She thought that he looked 
older suddenly. It was a relief when the butler 
returned, laying the paper on the table. Stagmar 
snatched it up anxiously, and scanned each headline 
for some word of abuse or disgrace. Finally, on the 
192 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


third page there was half a column about his methods 
on the Board of Trade. His face changed again, and 
he broke into a laugh. Joan did not guess the cause 
of the relief in his face, but believed him when he 
said smilingly to her: 

“Of course, I might have known what it was. I 
was afraid, my dear, that it was going to be one of 
those disagreeable criticisms that Hanford is always 
giving me. A man who lives in an atmosphere of 
spite! But such, my dear young lady, is the species 
of fame that I happen to have.” 

“Nonsense! Does that little Hanford actually 
pretend to criticise you?” 

Again Stagmar laughed, for his heart was lighter. 
“Ah, Joan, if our Lord and Saviour should be returned 
to earth again, he would in all probability find himself 
not crucified, but with his reputation in such a ruin, 
and so irretrievably blackened by the Baal-fires of our 
beloved critics that he would either be forced to 
ascend to heaven some quiet night, leaving his work 
unfinished, or else confine his society entirely to those 
characters with whom the Bible expressly forbids us 
to associate, for he would certainly be at once con- 
demned by our most exclusive sets.” 

During this speech Stagmar had, with half-closed 
eyes, scanned his daughter’s face, and he had 
not been ill-pleased at the look which rode upon it 
as she replied: “I do not see the sense of that idea. 
Christ did not come to the world to meet Mrs. 
Kent.” 

“And does Mrs. Kent not need or deserve refor- 
mation, then?” 


i93 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Mrs. Kent must graduate from Dr. Snippington 
before she can rise to the glory of Christ.” 

“Verily, Joan, you are more sensible than I thought 
you. ” 

“Thank you; but Dr. Snippington is fascinating, 
all the same. ” 

Stagmar frowned slightly, as having finished his 
coffee, he rose and left the table. Joan watched him 
disappear in the direction of his study, and there was 
all the worry of the earlier evening in his eyes. Then 
she walked away to the great empty drawing-room to 
spend a solitary evening. And she wondered sadly, 
as she fingered her grenadine evening gown of cardinal 
and black, why the old simple life that once she had 
so loved, should have gone so completely from her. 
Then it was not Bougereau’s Cupid that she saw 
on the brocaded wall before her, nor did she feel 
the silken Turkish rug beneath her feet. Her eyes 
rested upon the wonderful Velasquez of Saint John 
that hung in the chapel near the altar of a little con- 
vent three thousand miles away, and her feet trod 
again bare, clean pine floors. And she beheld the sun 
setting over the mountains, and heard the silver voice 
of the convent bell floating out of the scented breeze. 
Then Joan Howard’s great gray eyes were glassy with 
welling tears, and she had forgotten the reception, 
and the private view — ay, and for the moment, Cour- 
tenay himself. Thus is solitude disastrous to our 
peace of mind. 

Stagmar had work to do to-night, and he left his 
study for his bedroom after ten minutes struggle with 
himself to regain full composure. “My God!” he 

194 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


cried mentally, his strong face growing white and set, 
“is that woman to whom I have done no wrong to 
haunt me forever? Was Kent right in the old days? 
Should I have kept her? Why did I not? How easy 
it would all be if my whole existence were not on a 
groundwork of dread — fear of men and women who 
are not and cannot be my equals! Strong and steady 
now, Stagmar! No man but has his load to bear. 
Yours is light, perhaps.” 

Stagmar realized that with the life he had led and 
the work he had chosen, the import of each incident 
in his obscure beginning was now triply increased in 
the eyes of the world before whom he stood at this, 
his climax of a marvellous career. His every outward 
act was commented upon. How, then, to keep for- 
ever the secret of his intricate inner life hidden 
always from all? The scales of his present fate were 
weighted by two women; on the one side Helen How- 
ard, his wife; on the other, a slight, veiled figure, 
that of Edith Kent. He, Herbert Stagmar, stood be- 
tween, and cried out in helpless protest as he beheld 
the red-haired one sinking ever lower, slower, heavier 
in the balance. 

To-night the writer had work to do, a startling 
suspicion to verify or prove groundless. Sternly and 
calmly he thought over his position, as he changed 
his suit once more for the old brown tweed and ulster, 
i The brougham was ordered around immediately. He 
was not thinking of Joan as he hurried through the 
hall, drawing on his gloves, but his daughter saw him 
go, and gave no sign. As the wheels of the carriage 
rolled away from the door she stood already upon the 

i95 


A SOCIAL LION 


stair, listening, and a moment later climbed slowly up 
to her own room. 

Stagmar’s coachman was accustomed to curious 
destinations on these night journeys, but never before 
had he been told to go to a grain elevator. It was a 
long drive, and a cold one, and Perkins puzzled in 
vain over this last eccentricity of his master’s until he 
began to wish for the comfort of James’s logical con- 
jectures on the box beside him. But James and the 
brown tweed suit never went out together, and Per- 
kins was obliged to content himself with stinging his 
grays sharply with the whip, and then pulling them up 
hard. It was forty minutes from the time they started 
until the tall wooden height of the elevator rose 
before them, and Stagmar leaped to the ground. 

“You needn’t wait, Perkins. It is too bitterly 
cold.’’ 

“Beg pardon, sir, but we’d better wait. I’ve the 
blankets for the horses, and me own furs.’’ 

“As you please, Perkins. But it’s frightfully 
cold.” 

Perkins did not reply, but touched his hat respect- 
fully with his whip, and his master disappeared into 
the darkness. 

Arrived at the door Stagmar had some difficulty 
with the key. It turned easily enough in the lock, 
but when turned the door itself refused to open. He 
wrenched and pulled for some time, and finally in 
working the key, twisted it back into its original posi- 
tion. Instantly the great boards swung inward before 
him. The door had been open when he came! There 
was probably a watchman inside. Stagmar entered 
196 


THE UNVEILING OF RUIN 


softly, and closed the catch as quietly as possible. 
He had no mind to be caught here and make a scene. 
From one of his large pockets he drew a small dark 
lantern, which he lighted and closed. Then after 
listening for a moment he made his way cautiously 
down toward the bin which had had the hole in it. No 
sound came from the vasty blackness. No tomb 
could have been more oppressively still. There could 
be no watchman in the place. He had proceeded but 
a few steps down the passage when suddenly he felt it 
necessary to sneeze. There was no way out of it. A 
convulsion of the diaphragm is not always to be sup- 
pressed. It was a thorough sneeze, an honest sneeze, 
and it echoed like a deep cry through the entire 
place. Stagmar stopped, harkening nervously to the 
dying of the last echo. Suddenly, he never knew just 
how, a hidden door in the side of the bin by which he 
stood was flung open before him. There, in the 
entrance to a small, lighted room, stood Robert Cour- 
tenay, his blood-shot eyes staring dully into Stagmar’s 
own, his hands grasping the side of the doorway to 
hold himself upright. Stagmar had cowered back 
with the suddenness of it, and a single cry escaped 
him as he realized the import of the situation. 

“My God!” 

And “My God !” rang out also from the drunkard’s 
swollen lips, as something like a flame from the smol- 
dering fire of his senses shot through his brain. The 
crisis had come; Courtenay must face it now. 


197 


CHAPTER XII 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 

Courtenay recovered himself rapidly, partly 
because he had been half-prepared for discovery, and 
partly because half the force of this blow had spent 
itself in stunning him into sobriety. He certainly 
was in full possession of his ordinary senses as, with 
pallid face, but a steady, ironical smile, he stood one 
side, and with a slight bow motioned Stagmar to 
precede him into the strange room. Stagmar, although 
the first force of astonishment had left him, was still 
dazed and not thoroughly conscious of the full sig- 
nificance of the matter. As he went into the room he 
looked about him dizzily. What he saw sufficed to 
make him take in the situation. The place — not 
small for a room — was frightfully dirty, and contained 
a rickety chair, a barrel upon whose top stood a half- 
burned candle, and a pallet of rags in a corner, beside 
which lay a brandy bottle. Along the floor the 
writer noticed, with a little shock that drove into his 
brain, an uneven line of tiny grains of wheat which 
had fallen from a crack far above his head. The bins 
had been covered with false bottoms. And this was 
the place that Robert Courtenay, the fastidious, the 
immaculate, the man satiated with all the elegancies 
of earth and hell, had chosen voluntarily as a retreat, 

198 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 


a hiding-place, wherein, by aid of a drug, he had been 
able to forget the possible outcome of his detestable 
theft. 

Courtenay watched the other for a moment without 
speaking, and as Stagmar seated himself upon the 
chair, threw himself recklessly upon his couch of rags 
and stared, with the brazenness of despair, into the 
other’s face. 

“Well — Stagmar?’’ The tone was insolent, but 
Stagmar read, better than Courtenay would have be- 
lieved, the emotion that it covered. 

“I suppose every bin is in the same condition,’’ he 
said, with a kind of weariness. 

Courtenay looked at him steadily still, and nodded, 
adding: “I had intended to go, to get away, but you 
chanced upon my game sooner than I thought pos- 
sible. How did it happen?’’ 

“Merely an accident. How much wheat is left 
here?’’ 

“A little over two hundred thousand bushels. The 
false bottoms are in deep, for their purpose,’’ he 
replied softly, studying Stagmar’s face. 

The writer scarcely moved. “How much did you 
make?’’ 

Courtenay hesitated, stirred, and flushed. “There 
will be a little over fifteen hundred thousand left, 
after I have paid — everything. My debts were heavier 
than any one guessed. They had been accumulating 
for years. Of course, you will have all there is — now. 
Marie can go home to her father, if she wishes, and 
there need not be much publicity about the trial if we 
are careful. I am ready for death, though, if you 

199 


A SOCIAL LION 


think best. Those are the alternatives — suicide or 
the penitentiary. I’ll take your advice on it. I am 
myself hardly fit for decision. The last week has 
rather unmanned me. God!” he shuddered as he 
finished, and appeared to shrink from himself. 

Stagmar did not notice much of the last part of 
the speech. He was pondering deeply, his eyes 
were fixed on the flickering candle-flame. His lips 
moved once or twice, but what he said Courtenay 
could not hear. 

Without, upon his box, Perkins, having covered 
his horses warmly, was himself dozing under his furs. 
It was a bitterly cold night, though there was no snow. 
A fierce northeast wind that blows so constantly in 
the winter through the city by the lake, moaned and 
shrieked about the exposed corners of the lonely 
building. Yonder, in the river, the ice blocks cracked 
and crunched against each other, tossed about on the 
roughened surface of the muddy water. Perkins 
could make himself at home in any locality, and paid 
no attention to the weather. With the reins doubled 
neatly beneath his feet, and the robe drawn up high 
about him, he presently began to snore with pleasant 
lustiness. His master’s business was none of his, 
but he must not be allowed to tramp for five miles 
through the dreary streets at midnight on such a 
night as this, if Perkins and the horses froze for it. 
The good-hearted coachman was by this time too 
soundly asleep to perceive that another carriage had 
driven up on the other side of the warehouse, and 
stopped there not half an hour after Stagmar had 
entered the building. From this coup£ — a vehicle 


200 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 


which Perkins might have recognized had he been 
awake to see it — descended a woman, veiled and 
dressed entirely in black. As soon as she had alighted 
the carriage drove rapidly away, leaving her standing 
alone before the structure which at this moment shel- 
tered her husband and her husband’s friend and 
betrayer. In her left hand Helen Howard bore a 
short stick with a knob at one end of it. 

Before the door La Caralita paused. It was too 
dark for her to distinguish clearly the outline of the 
door, and she was not sure of her locality. Now, for 
the first time, she perceived the other carriage. At 
sight of it a slight exclamation escaped her lips. 
The coachman sat immovable, his head drooping. 
Still she hesitated, then went forward uncertainly. 
Her plans were upset. This proof of another person’s 
presence was a grave annoyance. “Could Bob have 
taken it into his head to come?” and then she shook 
her head dubiously. “Not in another carriage. Be- 
sides, he could not be so reckless. I wonder if that 
man will hear — ’’ 

Perkins stirred slightly on his box. Helen shrank 
back, unwittingly, full against the door. It gave way 
behind her, and only by good luck did she escape fall- 
ing. As it was, the faint creaking of the unoiled 
hinges seemed to her as loud as a scream. At any 
rate she stood within the building, and gently she 
closed the door behind her. A dim light came to her 
eyes from down the passageway in the room where 
the two were talking. For half a moment she sank 
down in a dark corner, overcome with fear, excite- 
ment, and bodily weakness. Breathlessly she listened. 


201 


A SOCIAL LION 


From the direction in which the light came proceeded 
also the sounds of two men’s voices. Even at the 
distance, the woman’s heart within her quivered at 
the tone of one of them. She was certain it was 
Stagmar’s. Could her husband at that moment have 
seen the sudden light in her eyes, and have known the 
thought that had brought it there, would he not — ah, 
no! Mortal eyes cannot — will not, perhaps — read the 
page of Nature’s book that lies nearest them. For 
mortality is a .foolish thing, that loves to strain its 
vision with attempts at piercing into the invisible, but 
cares naught for those wonders that lie straight before 
it, to the right and left. All-wise Herbert Stagmar 
refused to learn this lesson until it was — well, late at 
least. But to return. 

At the sound of his voice Helen Howard rose 
slowly, lithely, almost unconsciously, and began to 
creep by painful inches nearer and nearer toward the 
light. Just by the corner of the second bin, where 
Courtenay’s door had been cut through, a cross pas- 
sage ran. Here, in a small hollow diagonally oppo- 
site the door, beyond which she could see, Helen 
placed herself. It was an excellent hiding-place, for 
one would have passed her by without seeing her, yet 
to her the interior of that strange room was almost 
entirely visible. 

La Caralita could barely see her husband, how- 
ever, for he was sitting by the farthest wall, only 
just within her range of vision, and the side of his 
face was toward her. But Courtenay lay straight 
before her on the pallet of rags, and she could note 
every expression that crossed his finely featured face. 


202 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 


So the dancer, while the night went on, lay flat upon 
the dirty wooden floor, faint, ill, but true always to 
herself, listening with eager joy to the words of the 
man whom now she regarded as something far beyond 
her world, yet making all her life for her. 

Stagmar was speaking, and Helen knew the look 
that was upon his face and the deep, vibrating tone of 
his voice as he said : 

“Bob, what am I to do?” 

Courtenay gave a little cry that was half sob, as 
he asked faintly. “It — it’s finished you absolutely, 
Herbert?” 

“Absolutely, ” replied Stagmar, indifferently; “but 
it is also a nuisance to think that I have sold the 
wheat. ” 

Courtenay leaped to his feet, with lips as white as 
his cheeks. 

“Good Lord! I thought you had a corner on it, and 
that there was no telling when — ” 

“Be quiet, Bob. I hadn’t intended to sell so soon, 
but I was offered a large price for it yesterday, which 
I accepted. But I can get out of that. I have not 
been paid. Now sit down again and keep cool. It 
is not going to better matters by being dramatic 
over it, and I want to be eminently sensible. I must 
think for five minutes — I can’t tell — just what 
: effect — ” The sentence was not completed, but the 
author bent over the barrel, resting his head in his 
hands. Stagmar did not look at Courtenay. From 
her hiding-place Helen Howard watched the figure of 
her quondam lover with eyes fixed in dread, and her 
; lips sealed through fear for him. Without looking up 

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A SOCIAL LION 


Robert quietly drew from his hip-pocket a small 
object whose steel barrel caught a quivering gleam 
from the light of Stagmar’s open lantern. Then, with 
a strange expression in his eyes, Courtenay thoroughly 
examined the thing, and saw that it was loaded. The 
woman tried hard to speak, but was helpless. Cour- 
tenay cocked the revolver. The almost inaudible 
click did not move the author. The other watched 
his face intently, and with his left hand unfastened 
the remnant of soiled collar that remained about his 
neck. Then taking the weapon into his hands he 
looked up, as though wishing to speak to his compan- 
ion. At last he said in a strained voice, “Herbert — 
I’m ready if you wish it.” 

Stagmar lifted his head, then rose to his feet, took 
the revolver from Courtenay’s unresisting hands, 
unloaded it, and flung it to the floor. “Did you wish 
me to be arrested for your murder?’’ he asked in an 
ironical tone. Then, sitting down again wearily, the 
writer paused for a second, and began gravely to 
speak. 

“My question to myself, Robert, was as to whether 
this step of yours would do me personally harm or 
good. I have arrived at the conclusion that it will be 
good; not, of course, very pleasant, but still good. 
I shall merely go back again to the beginning that I 
had left behind, forget the lotus-eating that I have 
been doing too much of lately, and return to honest 
labor. The blow does not strike me as it might most 
men, for after many years of the study of humanity 1 
have arrived at the conclusion the stimulus of poverty 
produces the best work, and also the most satisfactory 
204 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 


content. Of course, not desperate poverty, by any 
means, my house being quite a fortune in itself. 
I can handle millions no more, but the picture that I 
paint of the future is not unattractive. 

“Now, you, Bob. First of all give up silly ideas of 
penitentiary and suicide. There will be neither trial 
nor exposure. Keep what you have made, and start 
with it. You think me a fool? Oh, no! I am not a 
fool. Only you will please stop attempting to drink 
yourself to death, forget this little project of yours 
against usual law and order, come back to society, 
and be again what you were born for — a gentleman. 
In the real sense of the word I am not a gentleman, 
Bob. This business shall never be known except to 
ourselves, and possibly the Messrs. Cantle — eh, Cour- 
tenay? — and I will see that no one does ever know. 
This wheat shall be sold in Europe. The present 
negotiations are to be broken off — and we are settled. ’’ 

Courtenay rose drunkenly. “Herbert, Herbert, I 
don’t understand. Are you making game of me?’’ 

“I am going to drive you home just now. We may 
as well get out of this hole, which, by the way, must 
be walled up. Come, you will realize better after 
some sleep to-night.’’ 

Courtenay’s mind was a chaos of many things. 
One idea presided over all. Stagmar seemed to him 
a God, who looked on things in the light of a God 
who knew of others so much fairer that human de- 
lights were nothing to him. In a dim way he realized 
that his nightmare was over, that peace of mind could 
be his once more. That was all. He followed Her- 
bert blindly out into the night. 

205 


A SOCIAL LION 


And in Stagmar’s great heart there lay but a little 
shadow of regret. His spirit rejoiced at his success 
as he twisted out of the old candle the last spark of 
light, and slowly led Courtenay out of the room and 
down the chilly passage. It was his one triumph, this 
progress from door to door, for, as he passed, a 
woman, she who had done him wrong, had caused his 
greatest sorrow, crept forth from her hiding-place 
and, though he saw it not, pressed her lips to the spot 
his feet had pressed, leaving there as consecration one 
glittering tear — the tear of a remorse greater than 
aught that he had borne for her. 

The two men passed out into the square, where, in 
the chilly starlight, Perkins awaited them sleepily. 
Courtenay made no objection to going home. At this 
hour I doubt whether he would have had a word of 
astonishment or of gratification at his command if 
finding himself within the gates of the Celestial City. 
He could realize nothing more acutely. So, without 
being conscious of what he said to Stagmar on parting 
from him, only knowing that his hand had been 
heartily wrung, he found himself entering his own 
doors with steady steps for the first time in a week. 
His man, who had been all this time keeping up a 
discreet and faithful watch for him, met him at once, 
looking slightly relieved and also surprised that he 
was sober. 

“Mrs. Courtenay is — a — not at home, sir.” 

“No, certainly not, Williams. I was — er-r-r — what 
was it? — not expecting to see her until to-morrow, 
perhaps. I must go now to my own rooms. You 
may come to me immediately, Williams. I shall want 
206 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 


to bathe and get to bed. And — here — Williams — ” 
A look, together with a bit of crackly green paper 
thrust unostentatiously into the valet’s passive hand, 
finished the sentence. Williams bowed politely. He 
had, of course, expected the tip — why else should a man 
take the trouble to stay up and watch for a dissipated 
master? — but all the same he could be properly grateful. 

An hour later Courtenay sank back into his white, 
pillows with a long groan of absolute relief that the 
nightmare of his life was over. Of the future he did 
not think. Stagmar had said it should be well. 

Yes, Stagmar had said it should be well. But in 
every matter of life somebody must shoulder the 
responsibility, be it light or heavy. In this case, as 
in many, the writer bore the burden. And as he 
drove rapidly toward his own home he found this 
weight becoming heavier with each clack of the 
horses’ hoofs on the asphalt. So long as he had had 
Courtenay, desperate, half-mad before him, he had 
himself borne up by the very force of those argu- 
ments which he had used on behalf of the other. But 
now he was alone, face to face with unveiled Calam- 
ity — and her features were unbeautiful and hard. 
Stagmar found that he was but human, quite human. 
With deepening gloom he saw his way stretching out 
before him, once again dark, blank, and comfortless. 
The mile-posts that dotted it from side to side being 
called failure, poverty, and disgrace. They were white 
as the unseeing faces of former friends. And worse 
than all — worse than loneliness and despair, was the 
thought that there were two women whom he did not 
love dependent upon him for their bread of life, who 
207 


A SOCIAL LION 


were bound to him by the strongest ties that man can 
be held by, and the thought of whom was now 
intensely disagreeable. Never before had he acknowl- 
edged to himself that he did not like his daughter — 
the daughter of that wife who had debased his own 
self-respect; now he passively accepted the fact. It 
was that imprudent early marriage that was respon- 
sible still for all his greatest mental suffering. 
Everything — everything in the world — might have 
come to him had he but been free, untrammeled, able 
to rise as he would, fearlessly. In misfortune, in 
happiness, in honor, or unpopularity, this thought 
was always the first to come, the last to go. Poor 
Helen! Well for her own peace of mind that she did 
not know all. And at heart the writer despised him- 
self for it, and one thing more. Impossibly, hope- 
lessly, inexplicably, but none the less mightily, he 
loved the child of his old friend, Edith Kent. 

On reaching his home Stagmar did not go to bed, 
but remained in his study, pipe in mouth, the diabol- 
ical Magdalene behind him on the wall, his mind filled 
with conjectures, plans, and stern realizations. Dying 
ambitions faded before him, and he mourned them as 
already gone forever. A picture of the life of a liter- 
ary hack rose upon his morbid imagination. And 
then at last his Fates grew kinder to him, and he slept. 

Now to return to the elevator. Helen Howard 
at last found herself alone, unseen, unheard, within 
the dismal depths of the vast building. She was 
scarcely nervous, for she had a task before her 
which love and fear made easy. Feeling her way 
208 


A MAN AND HIS WIFE 


to the door she opened it wide, and then in the frozen 
air made her way back to the room which her hus- 
band had left. In the corner where lay Courtenay’s 
heap of dry rags she knelt, and from beneath her 
cloak drew the stick she had brought and a little box. 
A soft scratch, a snap, and a match was alight. 
Trembling with eagerness she held the tiny flame to 
the tarred head of her torch. Instantly it blazed up. 
With a quick, sharp breath she thrust the fiery thing 
deep into the mass of ready tinder. For half an 
instant she stood watching the sheet of flame that 
rose up and spread among the rags. Then with a 
little cry she turned and fled into the windy night, 
leaving behind no trace of her presence save the faint 
perfume from her loosened hair. The dancing fire 
was left alone to do its work of glorious destruction. 
In fifteen minutes the whole side of the wooden build- 
ing was a wall of living flame, whirring in shining 
scrolls far above the lofty cornice. Ten minutes 
more and the square was ringing with the clanging of 
fire-bells, neighing of horses, the short commands of 
firemen, and alive with a quickly collected crowd, glad 
to warm themselves at this mighty bonfire which 
mingled with its smoke the foul odor of burning 
wheat. The fire-chief mopped his brow and shook 
his head at the sight. 

“No saving that,” he remarked. “Ripley, take 
your men and look to the next building. This wind 
may play the deuce with us.” 

Stagmar was still sleeping at seven the next morn- 
ing. His awakening was sudden and peculiar. Cour- 
209 


A SOCIAL LION 


tenay was shaking him by the shoulders and crying to 
him joyously: 

“Herbert! listen! Bert! Wake up here! It is all 
right. Do you understand? Everything is all right! 
Providence was in it, my boy!” 

“Providence in what? Eh! You, Bob! What do 
you mean? What did you say?” 

“Here, just read that, Herbert Stagmar!” handing 
him a morning paper, with a black headline on the 
first page. “Read that!” 

“ ‘Burning of Courtenay Elevator — Totally De- 
stroyed — Large Insurance — Interest to Board of 
Trade Magnates — Herbert Stagmar — Wheat — ’” 
Stagmar, still half blinded with far-away dreams, could 
not instantly grasp the situation. 

“My elevator, the elevator was burned to the 
ground last night. How it happened God knows. 
But it is gone, every trace of it, they say, and — there 
remains the insurance. You and I are going to stand 
again!” 

“Courtenay! It would be virtually a swindle. I 
cannot have that. The truth must come out — ” 

The look in the other’s eyes stopped him. “No; 
you shall not do that. I deny everything. Let the 
dead past bury its dead. Who will witness to the lie 
that would send me to state’s prison?” 

Stagmar leaned back in his chair and looked earn- 
estly at the younger man. Courtenay’s eyes met him 
straight, and his face never changed. In a moment 
the writer rose slowly. 

“I see,” he said, “and I understand. Your Fates 
are kind to you, Robert Courtenay.” 


210 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 

There was a good deal of talk among city men 
concerning the tremendous loss by the great fire to 
the firm of Van Alyn and Hamilton. The insurance 
men were severely censured for their extreme reck- 
lessness in sinking so much in one venture, and 
at the same time Herbert Stagmar was highly com- 
mended for his leniency toward them in the payment 
which they owed him. People also called Stagmar a 
lucky dog to have had his wheat so heavily insured, 
and the information was vouchsafed that he had 
always fallen upon his feet, forgetting in their solemn 
wisdom that when people tumble from a considerable 
height and land squarely on their feet the result is 
apt to be concussion of the brain, in lieu of a broken 
limb or rib. Figuratively speaking this had happened 
to Stagmar, for a heavy conscience is as bad as a light 
pocket. But what was he to do? 

Bromler Van Alyn took the loss keenly to heart, 
feeling that the blame of the imprudence rested upon 
him, and for some time he was unapproachable on 
the subject to every one save Stagmar. His recent 
inspection and satisfactory report about the building, 
and — though no one ever spoke of it to him — the fact 


2 1 1 


A SOCIAL LION 


that his son-in-law was owner of the elevator, filled 
his cup of professional bitterness to the brim. By 
his own firm he was completely exonerated. He was 
known to be too upright a business man by far to 
merit the slurs cast upon him by newspapers and petty 
would-be rivals. Nevertheless, the great firm kept its 
head above water only by a hard struggle, in which 
Stagmar’s leniency proved an untold assistance. 

The day after the disaster Mr. Augustus Hamilton 
sat facing his senior partner in their private office. 
The worthy Augustus was in an exceedingly grave 
humor. 

“We must be given a little time, sir,” he had 
remarked, on an average of every half-hour all day. 
“It is preposterous, preposterous!” he said, irritably. 
“Who ever heard of anything like it? The risk was 
altogether too great. Not that the firm could fail. 
Who has dared say that, ‘ Mr. Van Alyn? But we 
must be given time — time, sir.” 

From his corner of the office Van Alyn shook his 
head despondently. “Stagmar is badly off, I’m afraid. 
I believe he had everything there — ” 

“Badly off! Mr. Stagmar badly off, with some- 
thing like two millions of money coming to him with- 
in six months? Nonsense, sir! Within six weeks we 
can begin payments, perhaps sooner; but our invest- 
ments must be entirely overhauled, and many of them 
withdrawn. That will take time. Mr. Stagmar must 
be willing to give us a little time.” 

“I — I will myself go to him, Augustus. Perhaps 
to-day. ” 

“Really? Ah, that is good of you. Only let it be 


212 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


soon, my dear fellow. The sooner the better, Brpm- 
ler.” 

It was a mighty effort for Bromler Van Alyn to 
make such an offer, and his partner knew it. Van 
Alyn had the reputation of being the stiffest-necked 
business man in the city. As he never asked a favor, 
so he never granted one. Thus for him to go now to 
Herbert Stagmar, whom he had often accused of being 
careless about these matters, was a piece of self- 
abasement truly remarkable. Van Alyn, when his 
mind was made up, however, lost no time, and five 
o’clock that afternoon saw him, immaculately dressed, 
ringing at the imposing door of the author’s resi- 
dence. 

Stagmar was at home. He had been in the house 
all day. His early interview with Courtenay left him 
in an unusually bitter mood. It was the first time in 
his life that he had felt himself helpless in a matter 
concerning his own honor. But he was helpless. 
Courtenay’s eyes had told him that. Naturally Her- 
bert did not know of the presence of his wife at that 
nocturnal interview, and had he been aware of her 
subsequent action, the matter would only have be- 
come more difficult for him. As matters now stood 
he could do nothing but let them work themselves 
out. In reality he was the one innocent person in the 
affair; he was also the most wretched over it. There- 
fore, when Mr. Van Alyn was announced, he felt far 
from easy over the object of his call. 

If Stagmar were embarrassed when he sat face to 
face with his visitor at last, Van Alyn himself was 
more so. He coughed hastily and cleared his throat 


213 


A SOCIAL LION 


several times in succession. Finally he darted with 
commendable speed into the midst of his plea. 

“This is a business call, Herbert, concerning, as 
you will readily surmise, the disastrous fire of last 
night. ” 

Stagmar bowed. 

“Naturally you will understand that the fire has 
occasioned a serious outlook for the firm of which I 
have the honor to be senior partner. You may also 
understand my strong feeling over the matter in the 
face of my recent examination of the place made in 
your presence. ’’ 

He paused for a moment, as if hoping for a word 
of assistance from the other, who still gave no sign. 

“The place being that of my son-in-law, I feel that 
I stand in a most delicate position, although having 
met only with the greatest consideration from all my 
friends.’’ 

He paused again, and the writer impatiently flicked 
a bit of dust from his cuff, and tried to imagine what 
Van Alyn was getting at. After a second the older 
man drew a sharp breath, and began again to speak 
in a voice quite off key from profound emotion. 

“Our firm being in fact grievously straightened for 
money at this time, I have taken upon myself the duty 
of coming to you to ask, to implore, your clemency 
in regard to our payment of the debt we owe you. 
What we ask is the grant of a little more time than is 
customary with us in such matters.’’ 

It was out. Poor Van Alyn twisted as uncomfort- 
ably and grew as red as though he had requested 
Stagmar to make the firm a present of all his property. 

214 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


It is impossible to realize what an enormity this mild 
requirement seemed to so punctilious a man. To his 
incredible surprise Stagmar suddenly burst out laugh- 
ing. 

“Why, certainly, Van Alyn. Certainly, my dear 
sir. As much time as ever you like. A little each 
six months until the thing is paid, if you like. I 
understand your position exactly. Not a word ! Why 
it is a matter of entire indifference to me so long as I 
keep enough to live decently upon and have a suit of 
clothes on my back.” 

“Dear me, Herbert! You mistake us! Six months 
for the entire [amount is all that we could demand of 
you. By that time every cent shall be held to your 
credit in the First National Bank.” 

“Take the Illinois Trust, my dear fellow. It’s a 
prettier building. I suppose there are papers and 
things to be looked over?” 

“Certainly. We should like an appointment with 
you at our lawyer’s, say to-morrow at ten? — and I am 
to understand that you grant the six months?” 

“Certainly, of course. As many months as you 
like. And now that we have finished the business — 
oh, yes, I will be there at ten to-morrow — let us go 
into the drawing-room, where it is less smoky. It is 
my da — my niece’s reception day.” Stagmar had 
caught himself just in time, but a spasm of fear lay 
at his heart. Van Alyn, however, in his relief, 
noticed nothing. 

“My dear sir, I trust that Miss Howard will excuse 
me to-day. I am hardly fit for a correct call. A — 
you will, I am sure, beg her to excuse me. I have an 

215 


A SOCIAL LION 


appointment very soon. Permit me, then, to thank 
you a thousand times for your leniency. I — ” 

“Tut, man ! Not a word. Sorry you cannot come 
in. Good-by.” 

As Van Alyn disappeared under Carson’s protect- 
ing wing, Stagmar turned hastily and went to join his 
daughter in the drawing-room. He felt an extreme 
distaste for solitude suddenly. To his relief he found 
Joan alone. 

At his entrance the girl arose quickly. “Father, 
I’m so glad you are here at last! I was almost ready 
to beard you in your den! I want to speak to you, 
and you have kept alone so all day that there has 
been no chance of looking at you. It is a shame!” 

“Yes, yes, my dear. What is it that you want?” 

“It is about the Brent’s to-night. You could not 
go with me last night; will you not lend yourself as 
escort this time?” 

“Am I asked, my dear? I fancied it was one of 
those dancing affairs, solely for young people.” 

“No. It is a ‘conglomerate.’ Everything for 
every one. I have your invitation. You told me to 
accept for you at the time.” 

“Did I indeed? How frivolous I must have felt. 
Very well, we will'go. But I insist, Joan, upon going 
at ten and leaving by one at the latest. The usual 
hours I do not approve.” 

Joan looked at him with some words on her lips, 
but forbore to speak them. He caught her glance, 
though he paid no attention to it. A moment later 
he was obliged to rise from the comfortable chair into 
which he had sunk, and make his escape before the 
216 




INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


entrance of some ladies who might not have been 
charmed to see him in an old velvet jacket and dis- 
reputable slippers. 

Joan spent the rest of the afternoon in great con- 
tent. If Courtenay were anywhere he would be at the 
Brent’s, and Courtenay, it appeared, had become 
essential to her happiness. His ten days of absence 
from the ordinary haunts of society had caused her 
unusual anxiety, the more so because she had sense 
enough not to mention him to any one. She had 
never yet derived very great satisfaction from his 
presence, yet she felt it something gained even to 
look at him. She dressed carefully that night. 

At precisely a quarter to ten the brougham stood 
at the door, and Stagmar waited courteously at the 
foot of the stairs with an unusually large bouquet of 
violets in his hands. He never omitted this little 
attention. 

When at last she came down her father forgot his 
impatience and feasted his eyes upon her, smiling 
with pleasure at her appearance. Somehow Joan 
appeared now more like a happy, bright-eyed girl who 
simply looked forward to the dancing and the frappe 
than he had ever seen her before. Whether it was 
her unusually simple gown of white net, or her almost 
tender mood, he did not decide. But for the first 
time it was a pleasure to wrap her about in her white 
mantle and hear the genuine words of thanks for the 
flowers. He sighed peacefully as he sat down by her 
in the carriage. 

Such scenes as this were, unfortunately, uncommon 
between Stagmar and Joan Howard. Their life tQ- 
217 


A SOCIAL LION 


gether was not what the writer attempted to make it. 
Had Joan been spoiled in the experiment? Was her 
head turned by position? Was she too much flattered, 
or was it simply her nature? A combination of all 
these things, or none of them? I cannot answer you 
in any wise save this: that already at seventeen 
Joan’s whole bearing and manner was that of a four 
years’ debutante, one as assured and as perfectly at 
ease with all save one as Madame Van Alyn herself. 
And whether this came from nature or from transi- 
tion, I cannot myself say. 

They were sufficiently early at the Brent’s, which 
Joan saw with but little satisfaction. Stagmar, ab- 
sorbed in conversation with a talented young editor, 
failed utterly to notice that there were no more than 
thirty people in the room. The cotillon was not 
ordered till twelve, and up to that time there was 
merely informal dancing in the ball-room, which Joan 
did not enter for some time. She preferred to remain 
in the drawing-rooms, where she might watch un- 
noticed for the arrival of the one person in the city 
with whom she desired to dance. Courtenay did not 
come. It was already past eleven. The .girl was 
angry and unreasonably mortified. She was at length 
forced to grant young Van Alyn’s request for a waltz, 
but even then it was only with an effort that she kept 
her thoughts fixed upon her partner. 

Nevertheless, the Courtenays were coming to the 
Brent’s. Marie Van Alyn, who had never been called 
a very intelligent woman, had, since her marriage, 
developed a certain character, or rather a pathetic 
kind of tact. It lay in her never-ceasing endeavor to 
218 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


conceal her husband’s many weaknesses, and above 
all his careless neglect of herself. Had Mrs. Cour- 
tenay cared less for the man whose name she bore, 
she would doubtless not have troubled herself to hide 
the unfortunate termination of her career as a society 
belle. Courtenay never abused her, was, in a way, 
proud of her perfect manners and clothes, but for the 
rest totally indifferent. Marie spoke of her secret 
trouble to no one, not even to her mother. As a 
result of her heart-eating the greater part of the 
world thought them a devoted couple. And for this 
reward Marie could not make too great a sacrifice. 

But never before Tad Courtenay so disgraced his 
name as during the last week. Though she did not 
see him at all, his wife felt an actual terror at being 
in the same house with him. On the day after the fire 
she knew that he spent the day at home, and his valet 
hinted discreetly to her that he was quite himself. 
Therefore she sent word to him courteously that she 
was leaving for the Brent’s at half after ten, and to 
her great delight he returned answer that he would 
accompany her. She began her toilet that evening 
with the lightest heart she had borne for many 
days. 

As her husband got into his evening dress he 
wrestled more violently with remorse than with his 
collar, which was refractory enough also. And it was 
with something like dread that he at length stood 
before his wife’s door, the memory of college scrapes 
and the head professor’s study, a day after, returning 
humorously to his mind. But this matter was harder 
to bear, for Marie would probably not scold. With a 


219 


A SOCIAL LION 


deep breath he turned the handle of her door and 
entered the dressing-room softly. She stood alone 
before the dressing-table, fastening her diamonds 
upon the shoulders of her gown. Courtenay cleared 
his throat, and spoke her name in a tone so low that 
it was strange she heard it. Turning with a little 
exclamation, and reading his expression, she held out 
her arms unsteadily, and he went to her almost ten- 
derly. Together they forgot the ball for some time, 
and this was how Joan Howard waited in vain for the 
arrival of Robert Courtenay until twelve o’clock. 

Miss Howard danced twice with Malcolm, and then 
two or three times with others of her admirers until at 
length she dropped into a chair beside Edith Kent, 
who was for some reason alone. Joan, seeing this, 
drove her own escort laughingly away. Young Van 
Alyn, who stood on the other side of the room chat- 
ting indolently with two or three non-dancing men, 
found himself confronted by this agreeable and unex- 
pected sight. The two young women had entered 
into an animated conversation, in which Joan’s ver- 
satility of facial expression gave her something of an 
advantage in appearance over her colder companion. 
The contrast was great and unfair. At heart Edith 
was truly noble; Joan Howard probably was not. 
Something about the younger girl was undeniably 
fascinating. From across the great ball-room, with 
the dancers continually shutting her off from his sight, 
young Malcolm Van Alyn nevertheless felt his blood 
grow hot and his hands tingle merely with the sight 
of her moving lips and the glorious hair which flashed 
at him defiantly. At length, during the long strains 


220 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


of a rare waltz he lost himself utterly, and, actuated 
by a rash impulse, made his way rapidly over to her 
and carried her off from the very arms of young Garth, 
who merely gave a mild whistle at this unusual dis- 
courtesy, and turned immediately to Edith, who was 
watching her old-time cavalier with an unwonted look 
of displeasure in her eyes — displeasure, and something 
else — could it have been a strange sort of satisfaction? 
Edith would not have cared to know, as she floated 
off with the adroit Garth, that one person in the room 
had watched the entire scene and analyzed it all. This 
was Eleanor Felton. 

Meantime Joan and her partner did not long con- 
tinue their dance. There are some moments when it 
is unbearable to move sedately round and forward and 
back, when there is madness in the mind and a burst- 
ing fullness in the heart. To Malcolm this was one 
of those times, and without even asking Joan’s leave 
he led her from the ball-room into the short corridor 
approaching an orchid house, which was unlighted for 
the evening, not having been intended for use, as was 
the large conservatory. Only the lamps from the 
rooms outside stole dimly in through the glass. There 
was no one in the place when they entered, save one 
of the gardener’s assistants at the far end, who 
escaped as rapidly as possible after a single peep at 
the beautiful lady in white. 

For a moment or two the pair wandered idly among 
the palms and hanging baskets of rare flowers. In 
the midst of the foliage a tiny artificial fountain pat- 
tered its drops tinklingly into the small marble basin. 
This was the only sound to be heard. Joan, who was 


221 


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not in Malcolm’s mood in the least, felt ill at ease 
and awkward. 

“Do sit down, Miss Howard,” he said at length, 
flinging himself at the same time onto a little rustic 
bench, and never for an instant removing his eyes 
from her. 

Joan heard him impatiently. She was waiting an 
opportunity to get back to the drawing-room. Ah! 
perhaps Courtenay already had a partner for the cotil- 
lon. What a foolish, tiresome, nice boy this was! 

“Why?” she asked, in a fit of sudden petulance. 
“Why should I sit down?” 

“No, no. Do not sit down,” replied Malcolm, 
hurriedly. “Stand just as you are now, with your face 
half turned away from me.” 

Joan faced him promptly, but, taken aback at the 
look in his eyes, moved undecidedly back to her old 
position. 

“I’ve got something to say to you, Joan, some- 
thing that I can’t keep from you any longer — that I 
don’t want to keep from you any longer.” 

The small doorway into the orchid house was dark- 
ened by the figure of a man, but neither one of the 
couple perceived him. 

“Joan, you must know what I mean by this time? 
Surely you understand. I love you, Joan. How 
could I help it? Somehow you are all my life. I 
never for one minute felt toward any other girl what 
I always have for you. Will you marry me, dear? I 
love you so entirely, so devotedly, that you must 
surely return it a little. Joan, will you be my wife?” 

The form in the doorway moved slightly. 


222 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


Joan herself was surprised. She had never been 
asked in marriage before by any man, and she had 
never thought of it or expected it, least of all from 
Malcolm Van Alyn. She felt no emotion at the 
question beyond a little pleasurable excitement, but 
for the moment she did forget Courtenay, the man in 
whom she had been so entirely absorbed that the pos- 
sibility of loving any other, or marrying another, had 
never crossed her mind. When Malcolm had finished 
speaking she turned and regarded him in silence, 
astonished to see how white he had become. 

“Malcolm,” she said at last, in a very low voice, 
“I cannot answer your question just now, because I 
had never thought of your asking it. You must give 
me a little time. I do not know what I shall say — it 
is so strange to me — but if you could come to me — 
to-morrow — in the afternoon, I will try to let you 
know. You must let me go now. Good night.” 

Swiftly she turned from him, and as she crossed to 
the door, some one stepped rapidly and noiselessly 
within, and drew out of sight in the shadow of the 
palms. Joan left the room, and Malcolm, half-dazed, 
rose quickly to follow her, when suddenly, to his 
utter astonishment, Herbert Stagmar seemed to rise 
from the floor and confront him. He had no time 
to be angry, for the older man, laying his two hands 
quietly upon Malcolm’s arm, said earnestly and 
kindly: 

“I heard it, my boy, but it was chance, not inten- 
tion. Nevertheless, it is well that it happened so. Do 
not be nervous over this affair. You shall have Joan, 
Malcolm Van Alyn. I believe that you really want 
223 


A SOCIAL LION 


her; therefore, to-morrow afternoon, my niece shall 
plight you her troth.’' 

Malcolm grasped the writer’s hands in an ecstasy. 
He did not ask how Stagmar could speak so surely, 
and if he had thought of it he would not have spoken, 
for if it were false hope it was at least too good to 
relinquish at once. Would there have been any ques- 
tion in Stagmar’s own heart had he seen Joan’s 
expression at this moment? She was entering the 
ball-room on Robert Courtenay’s arm, her heart and 
eyes burning, Malcolm forgotten. Courtenay was 
talking lightly to her in his usual way, making love 
to her simply by the touch of his fingers, a melody in 
his voice, the deep interest in his eyes. Ten minutes 
before he had been pleading with his wife to dance 
the cotillion with him herself for the evening, and at 
her laughing objection had said two or three words to 
her in his low, vibrating voice that had brought tears 
of tremulous happiness to the unselfish, foolish little 
woman. Happy Marie! The Fates must have loved 
her in the end. But Joan Howard might not have 
been so well pleased had she known of that little 
scene. However, it never pays to study these many- 
sided people too earnestly. One generally finds more 
than one looks for or cares to discover. 

The cotillon was a great success. Half against 
his inclination, Malcolm stayed to dance it. He 
would have given much to have been alone to think 
for a little — a thing which he had not done to-night. 
But he was obliged to stay. He had engaged Edith 
as his partner the day before. So entirely preoccu- 
pied was he during the first half-dozen figures, with 
224 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


Joan, who sat near him, that his embarrassing rela- 
tions with the girl he had expected to marry hereto- 
fore never occurred to him. When at length he did 
realize it he literally started. In point of fact, his 
words to Joan Howard had been the result of an 
ungovernable impulse. The spell which her presence 
threw over him had always been powerful ; to-night 
it had reached its height — the height he had often 
already both dreaded and longed for. His passion 
for her had long been the most powerful thing in his 
life, and even now, in a comparatively cool moment, 
he cried out angrily to himself in vindication that he 
had a perfect right to marry a girl whom he loved. 
Stagmar himself knew his relation to Edith, yet he 
had offered Joan to him. “These prearranged alli- 
ances are absolute nonsense. Edith cares no more 
for me in that way than I for her. I will not have it. 
I was right not to feel bound. I must be right; I 
shall be right.” 

So he spoke angrily to himself, but it was still not 
remarkable that he was not happy, as Edith, at the 
head of the chain, took his hand with that cold, grave, 
beautiful, indifferent smile, and led him calmly round 
without looking into his face. 

Miss Howard remained until long past one, but 
her father made no difficulty about it. He sent word 
to her when he left that her maid would return in the 
carriage for her, and that she was under the care of 
Miss Felton until then. Stagmar went to his club for 
an hour, and was in the house to meet his daughter 
as she returned. He had not been in such good spir- 
its for months. To speak honestly, young Van Alyn’s 


225 


A SOCIAL LION 


proposal had somehow seemed to kindle the whole 
horizon of his life with a glorious sunset fire. A load 
of tons was removed from his shoulders. The many 
intricacies of many matters understood by him alone 
seemed suddenly solved by this one act. To-night 
Herbert Stagmar could retire and sleep with mind and 
body alike at rest. 

At ten minutes to three Joan entered, radiant and 
sleepy, with vague dreams of Courtenay, not Malcolm, 
filling her fair head. In the hall her father, still in 
evening dress, met her. He laid one hand upon her 
shoulder, and looked straight into the eyes that had 
so often baffled him. 

“Joan,” he said, in the voice that was unapproach- 
able, “when Malcolm comes to-morrow you are to 
have ‘yes’ for his answer. Do you understand, my 
dear?” 

Wonder and anger both stood on her face; then a 
kind of gentleness took their place. She said noth- 
ing, but Stagmar, satisfied, let her go. That morning 
it was Joan who lay sleepless. Restlessly, excitedly, 
she tossed and turned in a fever of wakefulness. Her 
great eyes stared into the darkness, and would not be 
closed. Her lips moved slightly at times, and tears 
burned into her pillow. Just as day began to steal in 
through her windows she rose from her bed, and cross- 
ing the room, fell on her knees before her unused 
shrine. No prayer came from her lips, but her heart 
felt much, and the dress that she wore that morning 
at an unusually early breakfast was a queer little old- 
fashioned one of black, which had been lovingly put 


226 


INDISCRETION OF YOUNG VAN ALYN 


together by those old-time nuns who lived down in 
the land of the setting sun. 

Stagmar was surprised and not ill-pleased at a 
speech that she made at breakfast: “Father, do you 
suppose that next summer we might go away to 
some quiet, old-fashioned place, where we could go to 
bed at nine o’clock every night and breathe fresh air 
all day?” 

“Can it be possible that she is finding it out so 
soon?’’ thought the writer to himself, but to her he 
answered, with a cynical laugh: “Your complexion is 
perfectly good yet, Joan. Have no fears.’’ 

Never in his life had young Van Alyn spent, so 
perturbed a day as the one following the Brent’s ball. 
It [would be trite to describe all the useless agonies 
of hope, fear, doubt, and despair that he went through 
in the staid offices of his father that morning, and 
just how long it took him to accomplish his toilet at 
noon, and how many minutes he hovered around the 
vicinity of Stagmar’s doorstep before he had courage 
to enter, at a surprisingly early hour. All that it is 
necessary for us to tell is the fact that when he at 
last found himself within he discovered Joan in the 
little reception-room near a samovar, and when he 
entered she greeted him calmly. He sat down, feel- 
ing utterly forlorn, but in another moment Joan 
Howard had looked him honestly in the eyes and said 
quietly: 

“You have come for an answer to your question, 
Malcolm? The answer is, yes.’’ 

We here follow Stagmar hastily into the study. 

227 


A SOCIAL LION 


He was satisfied. Are not’ we? No article that he 
had ever written gave the great author more complete 
satisfaction than the four-line notice that he read 
next day: 

“Mr. Herbert Stagmar announces the engagement 
of his niece, Joan Howard, to Malcolm Van Alyn of 
Chicago.” 


228 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 

Upon the night of her criminal act Helen Howard 
reached her apartment alone, on foot, faint, weary, 
but not frightened. Nay, her heart rejoiced deeply 
at the deed which, in the eye of the law, is a crime 
and subject to a punishment only short of death — of 
course, always provided that the criminal is discov- 
ered. The law does not often admit the motive for a 
crime as an extenuating circumstance. Most cer- 
tainly La Caralita’s reasons would have held not a 
feather’s weight with the conscience of a self-respect- 
ing jury. Love and law would be a curious team. 
And yet is it possible that the human love of one for 
another, even though it be blindly followed, holds not 
one end of a chord of sympathy that stretches out 
and 'up to the great fire-heart of all-love? If not, 
then let our love be given to weak humanity or the 
Devil, for they will be worthier than the God men 
worship. Somewhere there must be love for love, 
and where that land lies there was Helen Howard’s 
heart. She knew no God, and prayed to none, like 
Herbert Stagmar, whom she loved indeed. Her 
priests and saints, madonnas and confessionals, were 
not so dear to her as the husband whom she only 
appreciated when she had lost him. Helen knew 

229 


A SOCIAL LION 


that now she had lost his affection. The very kind- 
ness in his sad eyes told her that, for she remembered 
how once those eyes had burned for her. 

And Helen Howard was woman enough to believe 
that if she had lost his love, it could only be because 
some other woman had gained it. Who that other 
woman was La Caralita guessed, and guessed wrongly, 
of course. But a torrent of bitter jealousy swept over 
her uncontrolled. She watched her husband from a 
distance, closely, and being far-sighted, saw much. 
The much was enough for her to twist wrong into 
right with great success. Indeed, this was unavoid- 
able, for how could the dancer from her plane realize 
the breadth of a soul like Herbert Stagmar’s? He 
was beyond her, and thus, judging from her own 
standpoint, it was the woman of whom he saw so 
much, whom he so continually visited, that he loved; 
she who looked at him sometimes in the way that a 
woman looks at only one man — Eleanor Felton. She 
knew nothing of Edith Kent — did La Caralita, and 
had you whispered it to her the dancer would have 
mocked you scornfully: 

“That thing!” — pointing. “That great, pallid, 
yellow-haired statue! That woman after me!” 

And verily if you then turned to look at her, this 
tall, magnificent, dark-eyed body of nerves, with hair 
the color of sin — you might have marveled with her 
at the turning of men’s minds. 

Helen, born and bred to the life of a lower plane, 
was one to whom a certain kind of love was a neces- 
sity. The craving had been instilled into her from 
infancy; was she so much to blame? Oh! Christ 
230 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 


suffered on the cross to regain heaven. But have not 
two-thirds of those whom He exhorted suffered as 
much, only to have their souls damned in the end? 
Men still say that He died to save the world! Whom 
in the world did He save? Men! men! Is this your 
religion? For me, I love and pity my Helen and those 
in life who are like her, as much as Roman Catholics 
must a new-born babe, who, having died without the 
sacrament, is condemned to punishment forever — why? 
And if I, who am only mortal, can feel so much for 
these poor wretches, think you that God, whom they 
call all-merciful, can feel none? There. My bene- 
diction on you now. 

Helen Howard returned late that night to Fifine, 
who was irritable with anxiety, and, retiring, slept 
the sweet sleep of — the criminal (?) far into the morn- 
ing of the ensuing day. When she had been awak- 
ened and laboriously dressed, preparatory to a visit 
from the doctor, whom she dreaded this moring, and 
while she played a little with her Continental break- 
fast,* she asked irritably every five minutes for the 
morning paper, which was late. At length Fifine put 
it into her hands, and was slightly surprised that she 
did not turn at once to the theatrical columns, but 
rather pored devouringly over an “extra” which 
recounted a big fire. Fifine had herself run it over 
while bringing the paper up, and had found neither 
lives lost nor any hair-breadth escapes of firemen from 
flames — nothing, in short, at all engrossing to the 
feminine mind. It was almost all business, concern- 
ing insurance and many stupid things. Why, then, 
did the ex-dancer read straight through the article, 

231 


A SOCIAL LION 


and then turn to her maid with a blazing smile? “It’s 
all right, Fifi,” she said, half laughingly, “it is all 
right now, thank God!” 

And Fifine had no more time for wonderment, for 
at that moment Kent was announced, and Caralita 
became as silent as possible. 

At the time of her accident Herbert Stagmar had 
informed his wife that once a month he would visit 
her. In November he kept his word, but the call had 
been unsatisfactory to Helen. Stagmar had actually 
talked more to Fifine than to herself, and his ques- 
tions and comments were entirely relative to her own 
comfort and health. He had remained about twenty 
minutes, and had gone, leaving his wife hurt and 
angry. She had vowed then that it should be differ- 
ent next time. It was approaching the time for his 
December visit, and how the woman hungered for a 
sight of him! Before, Kent had brought news of his 
coming, for Stagmar did not care to take her un- 
awares; and she had already planned how Fifine should 
be out with the boy Philip, who lived and played 
pathetically in a tiny little room near her own. 
And she would at last have her husband face to face 
with her — and alone. Helen’s thoughts went no fur- 
ther, but ended in smiles. 

Upon the eighteenth of December Kent casually 
remarked during his call that Mr. Stagmar would be 
there next day. It was well that the doctor had felt 
his patient’s pulse already during that visit. All 
through the day Helen went about with the joyous 
consciousness at her heart, and myriad were the plans 


232 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 


of that scene which should ensue during the few 
minutes given her to count upon. 

On the morning of the nineteenth the dancer had 
the perversity to sleep far longer than usual, so that 
by the time she was actually prepared to face the day, 
and when Fifine and her charge had departed, the 
clock in the corner pointed to 'twenty minutes past 
eleven. Now, in the building where Helen lived there 
was no elevator, and the maid and child had been gone 
but ten minutes perhaps when heavy, masculine steps 
came slowly up the stairs without, there was a sharp 
ring at the bell, and a moment after Stagmar had 
entered and stood before his wife. His face bore an 
expression that Helen had never seen on it before, 
and in his blue-gray eyes lay a deep well of pity. She 
saw it joyously, and smiled slowly into his face. 
Instantly it changed from a melancholy sadness to — 
was it disgust or hate that answered her now? She 
shrank from him, as he began to speak in a voice 
which seemed to veil many tears. 

“I have been speaking with Philip downstairs.” 
Then his tone became expressionless from depth of 
feeling. “Oh, the little children! The little chil- 
dren, Helen! Think of their primeval innocence and 
purity, and then — of the warping and suffering that 
they must pass through before they become the men 
and women that they do! And you, and those like 
you, are responsible for their after-lives, it seems to me. 
That child of yours, whom you so heartlessly neglect, 
has not your face. His features show his nature, 
which is absolutely pure. Only his eyes tell your 
story. Your shame, Helen, is not for the bearing of 

233 


A SOCIAL LION 


him, but for the keeping him in life to lead the pitiful 
existence that he does. Think you that if his choice 
were given him, and he could comprehend its import, 
he would not rather choose death than the life — which 
has fallen to him?” 

Stagmar, as he finished this speech, buried his face 
in his hands with an inaudible exclamation, while his 
wife, who had risen nervously at his words, stood gaz- 
ing at his chair in misery. Finally, seeing that he 
neither moved nor spoke, she knelt before him and 
put both her hands lightly on his arm, “Forgive me,” 
she whispered. 

Instantly he shook her off, then looked up. “I 
was wrong to have spoken,” he said, steadily. “You 
cannot grasp my meaning. I wasted words. It is no 
matter. Thirty-eight years ago you may have been 
like him yourself — perhaps. I was thoughtless. For 
a minute or two my own babyhood came back to me. ” 
(Helen, woman-like, winced a little at his mention of 
her age.) “But wouldn’t it be possible for you to put 
something into this boy’s life? You know how you 
have treated him hitherto.” 

“But Snippington was worse!” she cried out pas- 
sionately. “He took away what the child most cared 
for. The boy has a — a heart-breaking voice, Her- 
bert.” 

“We were not speaking of Snippington,” he said, 
shaking his head. “The conversation is not profit- 
able. Let it pass. Tell me now of yourself, Helen, 
whether there is anything you want; then I must go. ” 

“No, no! You are not. You shall not go so soon! 
Why, I—” 


2 34 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 


But Stagmar put her aside again, this time rising. 
“I have occasional reports of you from Kent He 
says that you are gaining rapidly, except that you are 
too restless. ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sick,” she 
muttered, but the other did not heed her. 

There was a pause, and then suddenly Helen re- 
membered herself. “Herbert, will you please tell 
me something of Joan, of our daughter? I have 
scarcely seen or heard of her for the last month.” 

Stagmar glanced about the room and picked up a 
paper. Hunting rapidly through its columns he 
finally handed it to her, pointing out one announce- 
ment. It was the notice of her engagement. “Is it 
possible that you did not see this?” 

Helen read it through with a gasp of astonishment, 
and her eyes shone triumphantly. “Is it true?” she 
asked, quickly. 

Stagmar nodded. 

“Ah, what a great man you have become! To 
think that you could do even this!” Then, plead- 
ingly: “Herbert, Herbert, may I not see her, my girl, 
just once? Only a single time, now. Could she not be 
brought here, if only for five minutes, so that I can 
see the light in her face?” 

Stagmar slowly shook his head. “It could not be 
done without seriously compromising her. You know 
that. I am truly sorry to refuse. But you might do 
this: she is going to-morrow to Snippington’s church 
with young Van Alyn; go there yourself to see her — 
provided you do not permit yourself to be recognized 
by any one, ” 


235 


A SOCIAL LION 


Helen was looking at him with a little quivering 
about the lips. “Of course,” she said, sadly, “Mal- 
colm Van Alyn is not a Catholic.” 

Herbert started a little. “You, Helen, you never 
had any acquaintance with Malcolm, surely?” 

“Acquaintance? Yes, perhaps. But do not fear, 
Herbert. The boy is honest. How you distrust me! 
Do you think that I should be glad to have my 
daughter marry an unworthy man?” 

“I beg your pardon, Helen.” 

“But Joan will lose her religion then, when she 
marries?” continued the woman, insistently. 

“Has that creed done so much for you, Helen, that 
you should dread to have another live outside its 
superstition and degeneracy? No; Joan will not lose 
her religion then, for if she ever had any it has 
already gone from her. But believe me, I influence 
her in no way. She may have the two ceremonies if 
she wishes. I myself, as you know, acknowledge no 
belief. I am what men call atheist. Now I have 
been here for a long time. I have an appointment in 
a few moments. Go, if you like, to St. Matthew’s 
to-morrow. Good-by for a few days.” 

“Just one moment, Herbert, then you may go. 
You said — said to me a few moments ago that Joan — 
would be compromised if she were to come here. If 
that is so, it would be the same with you. You might 
be talked about, Herbert. So do — not — come to — see 
me again. I should not wish it. I do not need you. 
Your reputation is too high for that.” She stood 
quite still before him, her eyes on the floor. 

Stagmar looked into her unconscious face with 
236 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 


more feeling than he had exhibited at all before. 
Stepping forward he took one of her hands in a close 
grasp. 

“Until January, my dear, au revoir , ” he said, and 
an instant after was gone. 

Drearily Helen returned to her window-seat. It 
had been such a failure, the end of this great hope of 
hers. Only his words at the last, which had come as 
an utter surprise, consoled her a little. The day 
without was gray, cold, and snowy. She had sent 
the child and Fifine into it, and for what purpose? 
That he might be given an opportunity to talk to her 
in a way which cut her to the heart. And then Helen 
began to think of his words and the truth that lay in 
them, as he had intended her to do. Fifine did not 
return with the child until afternoon, as she had been 
instructed. When he came in the boy seemed quite 
happy, but at sight of his “mother” the look of age 
and dread so usual to the child-eyes returned to them 
again. Helen saw the expression with a little pang, 
and she called to the boy, gently, “Philip, come to 
me; let me fasten your tie.” 

And when he had timidly approached, expecting 
an impatient word, she stooped suddenly and kissed 
his rough, soiled little cheek. 

The child was astonished, and did not take the 
matter gracefully. However, he did not rub off the 
salute, and later, when he was washed, he did not 
howl at all, perhaps because he was more carefully 
handled than usual. But a little after, when Helen 
asked him if he would go to church with her to-mor- 
row, one small lip quivered pitifully, and he stam- 

237 


A SOCIAL LION 


mered out to know if there would be singing. “Yes,” 
was the answer. Then came a wistful question of the 
eyes, a slight shake of Helen’s head, and Philip 
answered, “Yes, please; I will go.” 

Snippington insisted upon a very high-church ser- 
vice at St. Matthew’s. Beyond the difference in the 
language used at mass it was almost precisely similar 
to the Catholic form. The Reverend Titus liked to 
wear his gown and surplice. He thought them be- 
coming, and his eyes would go up a sixteenth of an 
inch further when they were on. 

Most of the congregation arrived some half hour 
after the voluntary. Chicago people consider it dis- 
tressingly bad form to be prompt anywhere. Punctu- 
ality seems to argue that you are not so busy that you 
can only do a little bit of each duty that you are 
expected to perform in the day; and to be everlast- 
ingly rushing about is the supreme end of every good 
citizen of the Windy City. Helen ordinarily con- 
formed to this fashion, but to-day, for some personal 
reason she chose to be on time. By good fortune, 
Courtenay, who happened to be one of the ushers, 
was there when she arrived, and in response to a cer- 
tain little smile, gave her, with Philip, a seat on a side 
aisle very near the front, and near those pews occu- 
pied by the Hamiltons, Courtenays, Van Alyns, and 
Kents. She was, too, directly in front of the reading 
desk, which was the real reason why the facetious 
Robert had seated her so. The daring fellow smiled 
to himself at the prospect of something more than 
ordinary amusement at this day’s service. On entering 
their pew, Philip’s eyes flew instantly to the empty 

238 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 


choir seats, at which he gazed with a look so pitiful 
that Helen touched him lightly on the shoulder and 
whispered encouragingly to him. 

Continually during the first half of the service the 
church echoed to the rustle and clatter of the arriving 
congregation. Helen, who was veiled as if in mourn- 
ing, scarcely took her eyes from the Van Alyn pew, 
which was still empty. A dread began to form in her 
heart lest Joan should not come. But she did come, 
and almost at the moment when her mother despaired. 
She was triumphantly late, and made something of a 
sensation in her costume of bright blue and white, her 
graceful head crowned by a blue toque, a delicate 
white prayer-book in her hand, as she stopped in the 
aisle, just beside Helen Howard. She was followed 
into the seat by a good-looking young fellow with 
crisp brown hair and pleasant blue eyes which contin- 
ually followed his companion in the most open admira- 
tion. “Miss Howard and young Van Alyn” were the 
murmurs that followed the pair down the aisle and 
fell pleasantly on the girl’s ears, even as she bowed to 
the chancel. And Helen, whose eyes were misty 
behind her veil, also said proudly to herself, “Joan, 
my daughter, and Malcolm Van Alyn.’’ 

And oh, how Joan had changed since last her 
mother had seen her! But that had been a very long 
while ago. 

La Caralita seldom lost control of her tenderer 
emotions, and she now quickly recovered herself. 
Prayers had been read, and the congregation arose for 
the hymn. Helen Howard, with whimsical anger, at 
sight of the holy Titus Emollitus, determined to dis- 

239 


A SOCIAL LION 


pel his composure for the morning. Quickly remov- 
ing her veil, she stooped toward Philip, whispering, 

4 ‘Do your best now, my dear, you know the hymn.” 
And as innumerable hymnals were opened she saw 
the child’s face light up with keen satisfaction. Dur- 
ing the first verse, however, Philip, through some 
little shyness, did not open his lips. The choir took 
up the first words of the second: “Give me a sober 
mind, a self-renouncing will.” Suddenly, like a 
gleam of the sun off a piece of steel, a voice shot up 
from the midst of the congregation that caused half 
the choir to stop and listen, and every head to turn to 
the spot whence it rose. It was a boy’s voice, a high 
soprano, cold and pure as Carrara marble. Philip’s 
little face was uplifted ; he had forgotten everything 
in his iong-delayed freedom. Helen looked down at 
him and then up toward the pulpit, and had difficulty 
in restraining irreverent laughter. At this moment 
the Reverend Titus Emollitus Snippington presented a 
curious and remarkable spectacle. At the instant 
that the first note of Philip’s voice sounded through 
the church the rector had shot one glance to the 
spot where stood the woman and the child. Once 
was enough. He did not look again, but stood shakily 
at the desk, with his moving lips and his delicate 
cheeks of so brilliant a crimson that the effect with 
his black gown and white surplice was both unusual 
and effective. 

Although to most of that audience the little scene 
consisted of a tiny boy with a marvelous voice and a 
young and very beautiful woman who appeared to be 
his mother, while the rector, by a coincidence totally 
240 


THE HEART OF A DANCER 


unconnected with the affair, seemed to be having a 
serious rush of blood to the head, there were still one 
or two persons who quietly understood and maliciously 
enjoyed it all. Of these, one was Courtenay and 
another was a woman, Eleanor Felton, who had come 
to-day to the church she so heartily despised to see 
Helen Howard. 

To Joan that beautiful voice brought back with 
vivid force the memory of long-past days of girl- 
hood. She fell into a revery so deep that it was not 
until the sermon was well begun that she thought to 
look around at the child who had sung. Philip had 
long since settled back into his place, and was now 
drowsing quietly as the young lady glanced unobtru- 
sively over her shoulder. Instantly she was bolt 
upright, only her head drooping, not a particle of 
color in her cheeks. She had recognized her mother. 

Half an hour later the aisles of the church were 
an inch-moving mass of people. Joan and Van Alyn 
were directly behind Helen Howard and the tiny 
singer. Actuated by a sudden impulse, Joan touched 
her mother slightly on the shoulder as Malcolm 
stepped back a little to talk to a friend. Instantly 
Helen turned her head with a nervous little twist, and 
she grew strangely scarlet as she saw the delicate 
white glove held out to her, and a faint smile on the 
lips of Stagmar’s child. 

“I beg your pardon,” said the dancer, softly and 
coldly; ‘‘there must, I think, be some mistake.” 

A little farther on Malcolm and his fiancee 
encountered Mrs. Kent and her daughter. Malcolm’s 
boyish face flushed sharply as they came in sight. 

241 


A SOCIAL LION 


Mrs. Kent scarcely bowed to either of the pair, 
Edith’s greeting was more gentle, but very brief. 
When they had passed Joan glanced quickly into her 
companion’s face, and noting its expression she sighed 
and turned away her head. A great social triumph — 
and triumphs bring moments that are indeed bitter. 

As regards Snippington, I confess that the hour he 
had just endured would seem to excuse in him some 
degree of wrath. And just so much as this, and pos- 
sibly a little more, the Reverend Titus Emollitus 
indulged in during the afternoon. How he blas- 
phemed and how he raved, and stamped about his 
rooms! And what horrible vengeance he vowed 
against the woman! And yet all this tempest in a 
teapot could neither remove from his conscience the 
image of his ugly sin, nor yet make his admiring 
landlady relinquish the idea that the poor doctor must 
surely be in that state of transfiguration sometimes 
reached toward the end of a protracted meeting. 


242 


CHAPTER XV 


EDITH 

Three or four nights before the church episode, 
Edith Kent was sitting alone in a large chair before 
the library fire, running carelessly through the pages 
of the Evening Post. In scanning the society column 
she came upon a short notice that made her sud- 
denly start up with puckered brows. She turned 
undecidedly toward the hall and the stairs, then sat 
slowly down and read the notice through again. This 
time a quick flush spread over her face, and she gazed 
moodily into the fire. She was still in that position 
when her mother came down very beautifully dressed 
for the dinner to which she was about to depart. 

Mrs. Kent entered the ^library and stood looking 
imposingly at her daughter: 

“My dear, you are to be unspeakably dull here 
this evening, I am sure. It is really sad that you 
regretted the Torringtons after all. Still, it is an 
excellent thing for the complexion to retire early 
occasionally. You will pardon my saying that you 
have not been quite so fiCas usual of late. Ah! The 
carriage is ready. It is twenty minutes to eight, is it 
not? Just fasten this lace, my dear, and do not dis- 
place my hair. That is it. Au revoir , Edith. Come, 
James!” 


2 43 


A SOCIAL LION 


They were gone. The sound of their carriage 
wheels passed up the avenue. Edith sat down again 
beside the fire to think. Her head whirled a little 
with the suddenness of her discovery. Mrs. Kent 
had not read the Post this evening, and Edith was 
glad of the respite given her before her mother 
should find what she had found. Again she turned to 
the paper, still willing to believe that it might be a 
mistake. 

“The engagement is announced — ’’ The sentence 
blurred before her eyes. Joan Howard and Malcolm! 
Edith had sometimes imagined her own name in that 
place, never doubted that it would some day be there. 
And now she had be^n intentionally, absolutely dis- 
regarded — no, call it by its real name — jilted, by her 
old-time playmate! Edith said these words over to 
herself, and turned a little white. She was angry. 
Aside from the wound that Malcolm had given her 
by his unexpected action, the fact that the other 
woman was Joan Howard made it worse for her. 
Edith Kent had never permitted herself to think much 
of Joan Howard’s identity, for her suspicions were 
not worthy of herself, and they did dishonor to 'the 
man who held the highest opinion she was capable of 
bestowing on anyone — Stagmar. But Edith could not 
like the younger girl. Their natures were so utterly 
different, their lives led with such different motives, 
that no true sympathy ever could exist between them. 
And more than this, Edith distrusted and did not 
respect Herbert Stagmar’s niece. 

With the thought of Stagmar came another attitude 
of mind. She knew that for the past year her own 

244 


EDITH 


manner with Malcolm had been so full of careless 
indifference as to have excited comment. And this 
manner had not been assumed. She had never said 
openly to herself, “I do not love Malcolm Van 
Alyn,” simply because it would have been ridiculous. 
Edith Kent never had loved Malcolm. She had 
always regarded him as a nice boy, whom she could 
count upon for anything, who danced remarkably well, 
and whom she should some day marry. The little 
romance that was in her nature had of late months 
been "expended on another and totally different kind 
of person, whom she called Mr. Stagmar. The con- 
fession might as well be made immediately that at 
times, when she was quite alone, Edith forgot her 
calm pallor and had thrown as much scarlet intensity 
as the dancer herself upon the silent air, into the one 
word, spoken lowly, “Herbert!” 

After this admission to herself, Edith could not 
feel any serious pain of loss at the news of the engage- 
ment. Indeed, for a moment there was a sense of 
freedom, as of a sudden release. She could feel as 
she liked openly now. But again, a moment later, the 
sense of her wounded vanity and mortification swept 
over her, and she stared gloomily into the dying 
flame, trying to trace Joan Howard’s features in the 
coals. This was an interesting if unprofitable amuse- 
ment, and so deeply was the young lady engaged that 
she did not hear the sharp ring at the door, nor the 
butler as he came through to open b, but was entirely 
surprised when Gilbert brought her a card bearing 
Miss Felton’s name. 

One hand went to Edith’s hair, the other to the 


245 


A SOCIAL LION 


back of her waist. Then she passed swiftly into the 
great half-lighted drawing-room. 

“Oh, Miss Felton, so pleased to see you! But 
don’t let us stay here; it is too dreary. I am quite 
alone to-night, and was dozing by the library fire.’’ 

“Thank you; I should be glad to go there. A 
library is my natural lair, you know. Oh, I shall be 
quite at home here.’’ And Eleanor smiled rather 
amusedly to herself at the “library,’’ which consisted 
of two rare little mahogany bookcases filled with 
Weyman, and Doyle, and Hope, with a slight sprink- 
ling of Thackeray and Dumas, merely for effect. 
Stagmar’s books, magnificently bound, and entirely 
unsoiled — for Edith had her own set of those upstairs — 
also occupied a conspicuous position. There were in 
all perhaps eighty volumes. 

Eleanor Felton was very simply dressed, and she 
smiled brightly at Edith as she said: “I was counting 
upon finding you alone; you see I knew that your 
father and mother had gone down to the Fellowship, 
and as there was almost nothing else going on, I had 
hoped you would be at home.’’ 

“As you see. Now you are to accomplish the 
charitable work of saving me from solitude. ’’ Edith 
tried hard to make her tone thoroughly cordial, but it 
did not ring quite true. For it was not wonderful 
that the girl heartily wished to be alone at this time, 
and was also more than a little uneasy at the object of 
Miss Felton’s call. She had never regarded Eleanor 
as a gossip, but she did dread her keen eyes and her 
sarcastic spirit. 

It had needed no word on Edith’s part to make 
246 


EDITH 


Eleanor Felton cognizant of Edith’s mood. Nay, 
Eleanor had counted upon this, for she, with the rest 
^f the world, had read her Post that evening, and 
had had the temerity to do what fifty others, actuated 
by a different motive, had not dared, but strongly 
wished to dare. Eleanor had the idea that the blow 
might have come hardly upon the girl, and, on this 
solitary evening, called with the sole idea of draw- 
ing Edith’s thoughts away from herself. Now that 
she was here she found it more difficult to do than she 
had anticipated. Edith’s manner puzzled her. She 
had not thought of being misjudged, and now 
deemed it best to let Edith herself choose the topic 
of their conversation. There was something of 
heroism in the girl’s calmness when at last she did 
speak. 

“You have, of course, heard of Malcolm’s engage- 
ment, Miss Felton?’’ Edith was grasping the bull by 
its horns somewhat savagely. 

The speech made Eleanor nervous, even while she 
marveled. “Oh, yes,’’ she responded, with pleasant 
indifference. 

“It could hardly have surprised most people,’’ 
went on Edith, in a voice that quivered never a hair’s 
breadth. “Miss Howard is so very attractive, and 
Malcolm has been devoted to her for so long. I shall 
tell him that it was love at first sight.’’ 

“I know that, too,’’ replied Eleanor; “but I had 
not an idea that Malcolm was serious in any of it. It 
has always seemed to me that for the last year or two 
the boy has been studying girl-natures for his own 
amusement, and has gone from one of them to another 

247 


A SOCIAL LION 


like a butterfly to flowers. I have always enjoyed 
watching him.” 

“And he was doubtless studying me, too,” added 
Edith, cold with anger. 

“You, Edith!” cried the other, starting at perceiv- 
ing how her sentence had been interpreted. “A 
thousand times no! You were the one being to whom 
he was always the same, to whom he always returned 
with the same quiet devotion after each of his wander- 
ings. It proved how unfavorably all others compared 
with you. Speaking the truth to you, Edith, from the 
bottom of my heart, I believe that the boy has made 
some childish mistake. If he proposed to Joan How- 
ard it was in a fit of hair-brained enthusiasm over her 
magnetic beauty. The girl has a peculiar grace about 
her, you know, which attracts men for The moment, 
as Malcolm was attracted. And now he cannot draw 
back. I am bitterly sorry for him. ” 

“You are not just to Joan,” said Edith in a low 
voice. “She is, as you say, supremely attractive to 
men, but she can also hold their love, I think. Be- 
sides that, she is Mr. Stagmar’s niece.” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” cried Eleanor, 
brusquely. She had been astounded at the dignity 
of tone in Edith’s last phrase. 

Edith, startled, remained rather awkwardly silent. 
And Eleanor, seeing it, asked herself, “Is it .pos- 
sible?” Miss Felton sat watching the younger woman 
curiously. Edith liked the expression in her eyes. 
Eleanor’s lips parted, she hesitated for a second, 
and then the question leaped out impulsively, “Edith, 
did you care for Malcolm Van Alyn?” 

248 


EDITH 


Miss Kent drew a quick breath, but she was neither 
surprised nor angry. “Really, Eleanor, I don’t 
know. It has been a mortification, a relief, a sorrow, 
and a joy by turns. I have felt glad to be free, sorry 
that I have lost my brother. I do not suppose that I 
cared for him at all as I should.’’ She finished with 
a regretful smile. 

“Then,’’ continued Eleanor, now unconsciously 
bold, “do you care for any one else?’’ 

“Oh!” Edith rose to her feet, her face scarlet. 
“How dare you — Eleanor? Nay,” mockingly now, 
“truly, Eleanor, I do not know!” 

Miss Felton laughed in a relieved way, for she sud- 
denly realized the liberty she had taken, and she had 
no desire to forfeit Edith Kent’s friendship. But 
Edith’s answer had been such a mixture of anger, 
confusion, and self-possession that Eleanor was now 
curious in earnest. However, the girl would have no 
more manceuvers, and hastily turned the subject. 
During the rest of the call conversation strayed 
through oft-trodden, sandy paths, and at half after 
nine Eleanor gathered her heavy wraps once more 
about her and said au revoir. 

Passing out to her coupe, Miss Felton did not 
notice the sturdy figure of a man loitering aimlessly 
about, only a few paces from the steps of the Kent’s 
house. Truth to tell this person had been wandering 
chillily around the immediate neighborhood for the 
past half-hour, watching with a considerable degree 
of impatience the carriage that still stood immovable 
before the entrance. As soon as Miss Felton had 
driven away the fellow went hastily up to the Kent’s * 

249 


A SOCIAL LION 


door and put his hand to the bell, drawing it away 
again before he had rung. He stepped back and 
glanced once more, apprehensively, up at the tower- 
ing stone front. From one of the upper windows a 
light gleamed suddenly forth. At the same moment 
those below went out. The man sighed, shook his 
head, went down the steps again, and then turning 
his coat-collar up about his ears, strode hastily off 
down the street. Poor Malcolm! He had not dared. 

Edith had gone to her room, and it was the light 
from this window that had sent the erratic boy away 
in despair. She had prepared herself for bed, though 
it was early and she not in the least sleepy. Sitting 
before her dressing-table, her white gown falling in 
classic folds from her neck to her feet, her long fair 
hair bound in a heavy braid, the brush idle in her 
strong hand, Edith fell to musing. Her eyes rested 
upon a large photograph of Malcolm. For a moment 
she regarded it angrily. Then her face grew quizzical. 
Leaning over, she took the picture from its place, and 
began thoughtfully to study its features. It was an 
open young face, and not a weak one, taken altogether. 
Looked at piecemeal, the hair was thick and crinkly 
and rather closely cut, the brows were straight and 
earnestly drawn, the eyes slightly too far apart, the 
nose short, the mouth beautifully curved, the chin 
small and firm. Edith studied it until the corners of 
her mouth began to twitch, and she broke into a low 
laugh, exclaiming aloud: “Oh, Malcolm! My dear 
Malcolm! You are so very young!” And then as her 
face grew grave again, added, sadly: “You would 
have been good to me, I know. And of the other — 
25 ° 


EDITH 


oh, there is no possible hope! But, as I love you 
both, God bless you!” 

All through the next morning Mrs. Kent was 
unreasonable and thoroughly trying. At the dinner 
last night the engagement of Van Alyn to Joan had 
been discussed before her in the direct presence of 
Stagmar, thus making a single sweetly detrimental 
word on her part utterly impossible. Mrs. Kent’s 
anger at the matter knew no bounds, and as her night 
had been sleepless, by morning her pent-up rage 
could find no method of adequate expression. She 
would not speak on the subject for fear that uncon- 
trolled emotion might bring out many long-delayed 
wrinkles, but there are methods of showing displeas- 
ure that will not cause wrinkles — on the face. There- 
fore, it was with a breath of polite yet intense relief 
that Edith beheld her mother finally rustle into the 
stiffest of brocades preparatory to a luncheon, to 
which she at length departed, leaving Edith to enter- 
tain three uninteresting guests. By four o’clock the 
girl was at liberty again, and then, yielding to a sud- 
den impulse, she departed to call upon her — rival, 
Joan Howard, to whom she had already ordered the 
costliest of Sevres teacups to be sent. 

At half-past three on the same afternoon Herbert 
Stagmar finished a long and exhausting day’s work at 
his desk. He was wretchedly tired when at last he 
felt that he might push away all the papers, throw his 
arms lazily above his head, and saunter away from 
his hot study to the large spaces of the drawing-rooms, 
where Carson met and saluted him respectfully. 

“Where will you have luncheon, sir?” 

251 


A SOCIAL LION 


u Luncheon? Ah, that sounds good, Carson. I be- 
lieve that I have not had much to-day beyond a lemon 
or so. I’ll lunch in here, Carson.” 

Carson left the room bowing unobtrusively, return- 
ing not long after with a large tray, covered with the 
peculiar conglomeration of dishes which the butler 
only knew how to prepare for the eccentric taste of his 
master. 

‘‘Where’s Miss Howard?” queried the writer, mak- 
ing a fierce attack upon a breaded cutlet. 

‘‘Miss Howard is not in, sir. I believe she is mak- 
ing calls. ” 

Stagmar poured himself out a glass of claret and 
seltzer, and muttered something unintelligible. 

A carriage rolled up to the door. Stagmar went 
to the window, a buttered roll in his hand, and peered 
out unostentatiously. He saw Edith Kent within the 
coupe, saw her hand her card to the footman, who ran 
up the steps, leaving the door of the vehicle open. 

‘‘Carson!” called Stagmar, hastily, as the butler 
passed through the hall to the door. ‘‘Carson! Miss 
Howard is at home. Miss Howard is in my study. 
She will receive Miss Kent there. You understand?” 

Carson’s brows twitched as he replied without a 
particle of surprise in his voice, ‘‘Yes, sir.” But in 
his own mind he casually asked himself, ‘‘What in the 
devil is Mr. Stagmar up to now?” 

That question of Carson’s Stagmar himself might 
have had some difficulty in answering clearly. He 
stood by the desk in the study, his fingers tapping ner- 
vously on the wood, on his face a peculiarly jovial 
smile that had shone there rarely since the days of his 
252 


EDITH 


Bohemianism. In fact this unreasonable action was 
a relic of those old days when he, and Kent, and 
Chatsworth had been wont to play their pranks to- 
gether. And yet there was something a little more 
serious in it. He thought that in a moment Edith 
would be coming to him there, and at the thought his 
eyes grew gentle. 

“Miss Howard is in,” said the footman, and Miss 
Kent, a moment later, was received at the hall door 
by Carson, who bowed solemnly. 

“Will you be so good as to go to the study, 
madame. Miss — Miss Howard is there.” We trust 
that the Recording Angel did Carson justice for that 
unwilling lie. 

“The study?” asked Edith, a little puzzled. 

“Yes, Miss Kent. This way, if you please.” 

Having ushered the young lady to the closed oaken 
doors, Carson, the faithful and forbearing, quitted the 
scene of interest, and departed to his own quarters, 
leaving Edith to hold whatever opinion of him that 
she liked. However, Edith Kent was able to open a 
door for herself, if Miss Howard chose this unconven- 
tional mode of reception. Besides that, she was glad 
enough to see the study — his room — for once. The 
handle of the door turned doubtfully. Stagmar, 
within, drew a quick breath; then — they stood face to 
face. Again Herbert thanked his rising star that his 
daughter was not at home. 

“Miss Kent?” remarked the writer, in an inimitable 
tone of surprise and courteous welcome, albeit a 
thread of something slightly warmer crept uncon- 
sciously into it. 


253 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Mr. Stagmar!” responded Edith, aghast. 

“You wished to see me?” he inquired, politely. 

“To see you? Oh, no! The butler informed me 
that Miss Howard was here. I wished to see her.” 
The tone was haughty now. 

Stagmar raised his brows. “Some mistake, I am 
sure. Miss Howard is, I believe, herself paying visits. 
I am exceedingly sorry. But you, Miss Kent,” as the 
girl instantly began moving toward the door, “since 
you are here, make me, instead of my niece, a little 
call. We bachelors are so sadly devoid of privilege 
in that line. Really I have always thought that the 
ladies took pleasure in neglecting us. Come now, 
prove my accusation of your sex false.” 

Utterly unconventional, even improper, as was the 
proposition, Stagmar’s tone was so engagingly per- 
suasive that Edith smiled in spite of herself. Now 
Stagmar very well knew that Edith Kent had never 
done an imprudent thing in all her life. And perhaps 
thic freak of his was as much an experiment as to his 
power of attraction as anything. If so, he must have 
been flattered by his success. How am I to explain 
why Edith, as he pushed toward her an easy chair and 
smiled charmingly into her eyes, sank slowly and with 
scarce perceptible hesitation into the leather depths, 
a faint tinge of pink in her cheeks, a tiny sparkle in 
her eyes, and the still lingering smile on her classic 
lips? 

“Do you know, Mr. Stagmar,” she said, when he 
had seated himself near her, unconsciously leaning 
over toward her that he might lose neither tone of 
her voice nor expression of her eyes, “do you know I 

254 


EDITH 


have never before been in this room where you work, 
and where the public which doesn’t know you thinks 
of you as being always?” 

He laughed genially. She was losing much beside 
her mere formality of manner; she was opening to 
him, and oh, how well it all became her! “And you, 
who do know me, know also that I do my duty by this 
room very ill indeed. Are you aware besides that I 
love to leave work behind me that I may come into 
the land — where you dwell?” 

Strangely enough Edith was not embarrassed. She 
was sure that he had spoken so to no woman before, 
and she was glad at the thought. Her face flushed 
delicately as she answered him. 

Leaning far back in her great chair, and looking 
at him out of those coldly blue eyes that had suddenly 
grown warm and dreamy, she spoke, and in her voice 
was the language that every man and every woman 
speaks once at least during life: “Tell me — tell me 
about your life, about how you live within yourself. 
How do you plan your work, and when do you do the 
best of it? Your own life must be unusual. You are 
not really the Mr. Stagmar who is serious at dinners, 
brilliant at receptions, witty at afternoons, and 
severely solemn at balls. I should like to know you. 
After you have told me, I must go.” 

“So soon as that!” 

“Have you so little to tell?” 

He looked down into her smiling face, and resolved 
that it should not be little. Speaking rather slowly 
he began to talk to her of his everyday life, of how he 
toiled and idled, meditated, thought, and listened, 

255 


A SOCIAL LION 


regretted deeds, or was satisfied with them, was mel- 
ancholy or gay, as his mood seized him. It was only 
the story of the life of every thoughtful man, but told 
so well that it appeared far more. He omitted the 
somberest and heaviest passages, the times when he 
was at his greatest, when, as seen from the common- 
place present, he appeared to be filled with great 
mental anguish, when the strain of concentration was 
so powerful that, to him who looked back on it, it 
was too terrible to recount to this girl. In the 
beginning the listener had hoped for and expected a 
tale of an unknown wonderland of thought, but before 
her human hero had finished speaking she marveled 
that she could have imagined anything to be better 
than this simple recital of a great human life. As 
a matter of fact, the tale was by no means simply 
told. Stagmar was not talking now to an Eleanor 
Felton, to one who would not be caught and held by 
any glamour of words. Nay, the highest art of the 
story-teller was thrown into his speech, and the result 
was the word picture of a simple subject painted in 
colors so masterly, so harmonious, so striking, that it 
is little wonder that I, humble disciple only of the art 
of which Stagmar was master, cannot lay the same 
before you. 

As it was, when Edith rose, the brilliancy of her 
eyes, the color in her cheeks, and the smile on her 
lips as she held out her hand to her host, told him 
that his success with truth had been as great as he 
could have hoped. 

“You have done me a great deal of good,” she 
said. “I had expected to hear of great storms that 
256 


EDITH 


you had passed through in life, but on the contrary I 
find that the calmest and most undisturbed passages 
through the world are those that in the end can be 
called truly great. I am very glad that I stayed. 
Good-by, and thank you.” 

Was it strange that Stagmar did not smile as he 
touched her outstretched hand lightly and let it go? 

‘‘I — I have an apology to make you, Edith.” 
There was a half-smile now round his lips, as, leaning 
over the arm of a chair, he looked at her. 

“An apology? What is it?” 

“When you came this afternoon,” he said, hur- 
riedly, ‘‘I knew that Joan was not at home. I was 
tired and alone. You were the person whom I should 
most have desired to see. When you actually came 
I — I told Carson to send you here. I took a lib- 
erty. Will you forgive me?” Had Stagmar carried 
his experiment too far at last? 

Edith flushed in extreme anger. “You need 
hardly have humiliated me by telling me of it, even 
though you had planned it all. It would have been 
perfectly simple to have let it pass as an accident.” 

“Simple, yes. True, no. I have no desire for you 
to hold me in a false light. I am, as you see, weak. 
With any other woman it would have remained an 
accident. With you — Edith — I could not.” He was 
very grave as he came toward her to open the door. 
Without a word she passed through it, and then, with 
a quick breath that might have been a sob, she 
turned. 

“I forgive you,” she whispered, and this time, as 
Stagmar took her hand he raised it silently to his lips. 

257 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE UNEXPECTED THAT SOMETIMES HAPPENS 

Courtenay, in full evening dress, lolled impatiently 
in the pretty little parlor of his own house, waiting 
irritably for the appearance of his wife. She was, of 
course, late. The carriage had been at the door for 
fully fifteen minutes, and Robert the Careless was 

becoming seriously annoyed. “What in can she 

be doing?” he muttered, kicking over a tiny gilt chair 
that weighed two pounds and had cost ten. Almost 
at the same moment Marie’s maid hesitatingly 
stopped in the doorway. 

“I beg your pardon, sir. Mrs. Courtenay thinks 
her cold is too bad for her to go out to-night.” 

Courtenay looked at the girl for a moment without 
speaking. He did not care to show wrath before 
servants. Then, rising, he strode up the staircase 
three steps at a time on his way to his wife’s dress- 
ing-room. 

Marie was quite dressed, and she was leaning 
back on a couch, struggling with a pair of gloves. She 
certainly did not seem well, and yet when she did not 
cough there was nothing serious in her appearance. 
Robert looked at his wife’s pallid face and dark-cir- 
cled eyes with a gentler expression. 

“We’ve got to go, Marie,” he said, shaking his 
258 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


head. “You won’t take any more cold with a high- 
necked dress on, I fancy. I’m sorry, but you know it 
would be deucedly impolite to them. Foreigners are 
easily put out, you know, and the Count lost fifteen 
hundred to me last night. Really, you must brace 
up. ” 

“We’re late, I’m afraid. Put my cloak around 
me, Bob. I probably shan’t know the Countess. It’s 
ten years since I saw Ethel Adams.’’ Marie spoke 
with an effort. An unusual lassitude was stamped 
upon her face. 

“There, by Jove! You’re right enough now. You 
can’t get cold with all that over you. I never knew 
the Countess. She was from San Francisco, wasn’t 
she? They’re going on to visit her family. Want to 
borrow from them, I dare say.’’ 

Mrs. Courtenay only nodded as Courtenay closed 
the carriage door. She did not care one way or the 
other about the matter. She supposed that it was 
quite right if the Count chose to lose his money to 
Courtenay. As her husband remained silent her 
thoughts turned again to herself. She really did feel 
unable to move to-night. It had only been fear of 
offending her husband that had caused the weary 
woman to try for a few hours more to endure the 
weight of her clothes, the straining agony of her 
incessant cough, and the heavy pain in her head. 

At the theater they were to meet Mr. and Mrs. 
Van Alyn, whose guests for the evening were the 
Count and Countess de Ferrincour. 

“What’s the play, Marie, and who’s to be there?’’ 

“I don’t know what the play is, something short, 


259 


A SOCIAL LION 


I hope. And as to the party, I believe it is only the 
six of us. One box. ” 

“That’s right. These big parties at a theater are 
disgustingly vulgar, I think. One always feels like a 
West-sider, and generally there are too many women, 
and you talk to four or five at once.” 

Marie laughed a little for no particular reason, and 
then coughed until she was utterly exhausted. 

It was an unusually long evening after all. The 
play, “The Princess and the Butterfly,” was in five 
acts, and seemed endless. Mrs. Courtenay was even 
more intensely bored than she had feared to be, and 
so ill that during the intermissions she scarcely spoke 
to the little dark-visaged Frenchman, who tried assid- 
uously to be polite, and did not seem to mind her 
continued monosyllables. He understood those at 
least. Mrs. Van Alyn was worried over her daugh- 
ter’s pallor, but could say nothing before the guests. 
Courtenay and Mr. Van Alyn were both trying to 
entertain the Countess, who was a quiet little thing, 
rather carelessly dressed. 

Before the play was over they left by unanimous 
consent. Even then it was late. Without it was a 
typical Chicago winter night, — damp, cold, windy, a 
driving, half-frozen sleet filling the atmosphere chok- 
ingly full. At the Auditorium supper was served 
them. The three men drank rather heavily, and the 
three women looked bored, did not touch the food, 
and made no pretense at talking. It had not been a 
successful evening. When the party broke up Mrs. 
Van Alyn drew her husband one side: 

“Bromler, it doesn’t seem right to me for Cour- 
260 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


tenay to take the Count off to the club again. Marie 
appears to be really ill. Will you speak to him?” 

Bromler frowned, but went over obediently to his 
son-in-law and spoke to him in a low voice. “Oh!” 
said Robert, and crossed to his wife, who had just 
finished saying good night to the Countess. 

“By the way, Marie,” said her husband in a care- 
less tone, “you’ve no objection to my taking Ferrin- 
cour round to All Sinners’ to-night, have you?” 

Marie looked a little astonished, then glanced at 
her mother, who was watching them. “No, Bob,” 
she said a little wearily, and so drove home alone. 

Only once during the long ceremony of preparing 
for the night, under the hands of her maid, did Marie 
speak. That was when her hair was taken down pre- 
paratory to its usual brushing. “Braid it and let it go 
to-night!” she exclaimed, and then sank again into 
passive indifference. 

When finally Katie saw her lady in bed, Marie lay 
back on the pillows just as she had flung herself there 
first, her lips white as her garments themselves. The 
maid examined her anxiously. She was an elderly 
sort of person, and had been in the Van Alyn family 
for many years. 

“Miss Marie, hadn’t I better send round for Dr. 
Kent?” 

A languid opening of the eyes and a faint “No; 
you may go now. ” 

Kate shook her head, nevertheless, as she left the 
room for the night. 

Courtenay came home at something after four. He 
was in a very good humor, being another thousand 

261 


A SOCIAL LION 


in pocket. Indeed, he had spoken truly when he told 
the Count how he regretted the departure of the latter 
for San Francisco the next day. But at that hour of 
the morning Courtenay did not care to visit his wife’s 
room, albeit he was perfectly sober. It was not, 
therefore, until next noon, when Marie failed to make 
her appearance at the breakfast table, that he 
thought to go to her. When he discovered her actual 
condition he grew just a shade paler, and a special 
call was sent for Kent. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Felton — Miss Howard,’’ 
smiled Edith, as she and her mother entered Miss 
Felton’s little drawing-room. 

“Thank you, yes. Tea, if you please. No sugar.” 

Mrs. Kent seated herself ceremoniously. “We 
have just come,” she said, “from Mrs. Courtenay’s. 
Edith left flowers, but we were not permitted to see 
her. James does not mention the case to us; it is his 
rule, you know; but I believe that he considers it 
serious. ” 

“Pleuro-pneumonia, is it not?” inquired Eleanor, 
gravely, and seeing that neither of the ladies spoke, 
Joan replied, quietly: 

“Yes; she is exceedingly ill. I was there this 
morning. Mrs. Van Alyn was just leaving. She had 
been there all night, and looked nearly as badly as 
Mrs. Courtenay, I thought.” 

“Have you seen Mrs. Courtenay?” asked Edith, in 
some surprise. 

“For only a moment,” answered Joan in an em- 
barrassed manner. 


262 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


It was an awkward position, and Edith promptly 
made it worse. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “I 
did not — ” Then she stopped, biting her lip. Joan 
flushed, Mrs. Kent bridled haughtily, and Eleanor, 
whoj*ather maliciously enjoyed the position, adroitly 
turned the conversation. 

It was nearly a week since the little theater party 
just recounted. During that time Mrs. Courtenay 
had not risen from her bed, and her condition grew 
steadily worse. After that one neglected night, 
which had caused more than half of the mischief it 
had become so difficult to remedy, Marie had been 
surfeited with attentions, to which she now paid no 
attention whatsoever. When her husband entered the 
room she would brighten a little. At other times she 
lay perfectly inert, watching, her eyes dull with 
fever, as the doctor shook his head over her pulse, or 
dropped tasteless liquids from tiny white phials into 
crystalline water. Like all women, Mrs. Courtenay 
clung to her doctor as to some sympathetic angel, who 
possessed life-gifts always ready to be thrown to him 
whose need was sore. Marie had no actual fears as 
to her life. She never once thought of it so seriously 
as that. But this was not as pleasant an illness as 
some she had passed through. The pain in her chest 
was too severe for an effective languor, and she was 
not permitted to have her hair becomingly done for 
fear of catching cold. This made her actually un- 
happy. She began to long to be up again and fulfill- 
ing her engagements. Every one was very kind, and 
sent flowers innumerable, but the odor of flowers had 
become disagreeable to her. She worried also about 

263 


A SOCIAL LION 


the constant attention of her mother, who was grow- 
ing worn and thin with anxiety. At length, however, 
she even ceased to notice this presence, and con- 
founded Mrs. Van Alyn constantly with her trained 
nurse. 

Courtenay was very good. He set his wife’s mind 
at rest by fulfilling many of their evening engage- 
ments, answering her invitations, and sending cards to 
her teas. He also spent a good deal of time in her 
room, since she seemed to like having him near, and 
to his credit be it said that he always took pains to 
conceal how the time palled upon him. But with all 
this, there were still a good many hours of his own 
left, and even if he was expected to do so, he found it 
impossible to worry continually over his wife, who 
had never before been seriously ill, and probably would 
never be seriously ill again. At his wife’s own request 
he went at this time to more dinners, receptions, 
dances, theaters, and balls than usual, and having 
nothing better to do at these functions, began to grow 
furiously jealous of Malcolm’s proprietary devotion 
to Joan Howard, who had now almost ceased to 
notice him. He went home, however, more fre- 
quently than to the club these nights, always find- 
ing his wife patiently, painfully, sleeplessly awaiting 
his good night to her, and eager usually for an added 
word concerning the smartest costumes he had seen — 
for Courtenay had a good eye for a woman’s dress. 
The nurse who now held sway oyer Mrs. Courtenay’s 
hours was surprised and a little put out at that lady’s 
periods of sleeping and waking. Mrs. Courtenay 
found it impossible to settle herself for the night 

264 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


before her husband made his last visit at twelve or 
one, or to awake in the morning before eleven at the 
earliest. Miss Brannit had at one time thought seri- 
ously of stopping Robert’s late calls, and making 
poor Marie retire at the impossible hour of eight. 
But Dr. Kent, to Miss Brannit’s intense astonish- 
ment, bade her leave Mrs. Courtenay in peace on the 
score of rest, and Miss Brannit soon discovered that 
there was much in habit.. Besides that she was fem- 
inine, and was, it must be confessed, always near 
enough the bed at night to hear such sentences as 
these : 

“White chiffon, silver embroidery, and a bit of 
point de Venise — or possibly it was Brussels; I did 
not dance with her.” Or, “Mauve and old rose, with 
violets, and rather a fine collection of emeralds.” 

“Yes,” thought Miss Brannit, “Mr. Courtenay 
was a strange man, but he was entertaining.” 

Nevertheless, neither doctor nor nurse was, after 
a week or so, satisfied with the patient’s progress. 
For the first few days the disease which held her in 
its clutches remained at a stand-still, checked per- 
haps by the remedies applied to the body. Then it 
gained strength to resist opposition, finally to rise tri- 
umphantly in increasing fever. The fits of coughing 
grew so long and fierce that frequently Marie fainted 
from exhaustion when they were over. The fever did 
not abate, and so, at length, at one of his afternoon 
visits Kent decreed that Marie was to be strictly 
secluded from the world, and not permitted to see a 
single soul, save, if she were perfectly quiet and 
obedient, her husband, once every evening at seven 

265 


A SOCIAL LION 


o’clock. At this fiat Marie rebelled with feeble 
strength. She declared that the world would forget 
her, and was pitifully angry when Doctor Jim calmly 
remarked that this was precisely what he wanted. 
Marie had opened her lips to reply, when the nurse 
entered, whispering that Malcolm Van Alyn was 
below, wishing to see his sister. Marie merely looked up 
at the old medico, but Marie knew how to use her eyes. 

“Just for the last time, doctor. You know that I 
haven’t seen him since he — since I have been ill.” 

The doctor looked her over piercingly. “Very 
well,” he said at length, picking up his case. “Miss 
Brannit, he is to stay for fifteen minutes, and not an 
instant longer. Then I am to understand, Mrs. Cour- 
tenay, that you agree to the verdict, and will see no 
one henceforth?” 

Marie looked up fretfully, but, as she saw his face, 
nodded, adding, “No one but Bob.” 

A moment later both doctor and nurse left the 
room, and when Malcolm entered he found his sister 
alone. Van Alyn sat down in a chair by the bed 
awkwardly. He wished that he knew just what he 
ought to say to her. Marie and he had always been 
so different. Now she was looking up into the strong 
young face and thinking how weak and helpless she 
herself was. She laid one of her hands hesitatingly 
on his. Malcolm looked down at it with a queer 
feeling at his heart. 

“Gracious, Sis, you’ve grown thin, haven’t you?” 

“Ah! My poor hands! They are disgraceful, Mai, 
are they not? I shall lay in cocoa-cream by the 
wholesale when I am up again.” 

266 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


This topic did not open great possibilities of con- 
versation. Malcolm was not well informed upon the 
subject of cosmetics, save that some women colored 
their cheeks, and that he did not like it. 

“And so, Mai, you are actually engaged to be mar- 
ried at last?” 

Malcolm looked down at her suddenly, but his face 
did not perceptibly brighten. “Yes,” he said. 

Mrs. Courtenay looked at him in surprise. “Why, 
what’s the matter? You looked quite gloomy. Have 
you quarreled?’’ 

Malcolm did not answer immediately. It would 
hardly do to tell Mrs. Robert Courtenay the cause of 
the slight unpleasantness between himself and his 
fiancee. “Oh, no! We haven’t quarreled. We 
never do,’’ he answered, affecting a yawn. 

“You are not very courteous to her, I’m afraid,’’ 
said Mrs. Courtenay. “I think Miss Howard lovely, 
but she is extravagant. She was having four new 
gowns at Weeks’ the last time I was there. Don’t 
you care for her, Malcolm?’’ 

“Yes, May. Of course, I care for her, awfully. 
She is only a little different from what I had thought 
her, that’s all. ” 

“I have always thought her very picturesque. I 
told her so when she came the other day. She brought 
some exquisite orchids, which the nurse insisted upon 
taking out of the room. But Bob doesn’t like Joan. 
He says that he does not think her at all pretty.’’ 

“Did you tell her that, too?’’ asked Malcolm, with 
a bitter meaning as well as the irony in his tone, 
neither of which Marie felt. 

267 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Why, of course not, Malcolm. How can you 
imagine that I would be so rude?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I only fancied that Miss 
Howard might perhaps have asked how Courtenay 
liked her. ” 

“You are very cross, Mai. You know I hate that 
tone of yours. I think that you might be kinder with 
me when I am ill. ” 

Malcolm’s expression changed immediately. He 
looked down at her, and picked up one of her hands 
with awkward tenderness. “I am a beast, Sis. I 
know that. But I’ve been confoundedly upset lately, 
somehow. Don’t mind it. I’m sorry.” 

Marie was easily pacified. She smiled kindly and 
patted his hand as she said: “Do you know, Mai, 
you surprised and almost disappointed all of us when 
we found that you would not marry Edith Kent after 
all?” 

Malcolm’s mouth hardened at the corners. “It 
might have saved you something in doctor’s bills if I 
had,” he said, using the disagreeable tone again. 

“I was awfully fond of Edith, though I could 
never quite understand her. Why did you not keep 
your engagement with her? It was really just the 
same as an engagement, you know. We all thought 
that you considered yourself bound, Mai.” 

Van Alyn was white with wrath. “It was no 
engagement!” he cried, fiercely. “A lot of prigs and 
fools chose to take it into their confounded heads that 
I must marry Edith, whether or no. It was idiotic. 
Why should I marry any one simply because our names 


268 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


were coupled? We never spoke of it to each other, 
and we didn’t wish it, she any more than I.” 

“Oh! I suppose she jilted you, then. I did not 
know how it was.” 

This was merely amusing. Malcolm could not be 
angry with her, but stood jingling his keys, while his 
sister lay back upon her pillow and closed her eyes. 

“Mr. Van Alyn,” the nurse entered, “the fifteen 
minutes are over, and Mrs. Courtenay seems tired, I 
think. ” 

“Oh, very well. Good-by, Sis. They tell me 
that I shan’t be able to see you again for some time. 
Hope it won’t be so very long. Be as careful of 
yourself as you can. You’ll be chirkier soon. Good- 
by. ’’ And with a light tap on her shoulder he was 
off, somewhat relieved that the ordeal was over. 

Marie lay back, thinking idly. “When he was 
I angry there he looked just like Mr. Stagmar when 
you are speaking to him about his books. Really they 
! do look alike. How curious that I have just thought 
j of it.” 

So Marie Courtenay entered into her seclusion with 
a very good grace, considering her tastes. And 
i society promptly forgot her after the first day or two. 
t Flowers arrived periodically from those friends who 
had been thoughtful enough to leave standing orders 
with their florists; her trim, well-groomed little person 
left an instinctive vacancy in certain ball and draw- 
ing-rooms, and that was about all. Her mother, for- 
bidden to see her, felt the loss keenly, for what 
mother does not yearn after a child in sickness or 
misfortune? Courtenay placidly went his own way, 

269 


A SOCIAL LION 


more seriously than usual, kissing his wife once after 
dinner, and for the rest of the time feeling himself 
free to do what he pleased. 

Three weeks passed. Christmas came and went 
again. Christmas in the best society is not a day of 
festivity. What pleasure is left these people to enjoy 
afresh? “I am really rather glad to be in bed to- 
day,” Marie had said weakly to Miss Brannit. “It is 
such a relief to feel that one need not be doing some- 
thing very holy and enjoying one’s self immensely 
at the same time — an impossibility, of course, but 
irritating to attempt.” 

For a moment the nurse did not reply; then she 
said thoughtfully: ‘‘You see, you have no children, 
Mrs. Courtenay. It would be different if you had. ” 

‘‘No,” said Marie, wearily, and shut her eyes. 
Miss Brannit thus did not see the hot, shining tears 
beneath the white lids. Poor, tired, faithful, silly 
Mrs. Courtenay! 

Three weeks passed, and in the second week of the 
New Year Marie’s immediate circle of intimates were 
startled from their ordinary boredom. The only 
daughter of the Van Alyns had fallen into a state of 
coma from which it was impossible to rouse her. 
Doctor Kent ordered a consultation. The consulting 
doctors (one from New York) looked wise, examined 
the patient’s lungs, looked wiser still, shook their 
heads and Kent’s hand, and departed with their fees. 
Mrs. Courtenay’s family, as well as her husband, came 
often now and stayed long beside her. They were 
very devoted and anxious, but Marie did not know 
them. For two days she did not speak, nor would 
270 


UNEXPECTED SOMETIMES HAPPENS 


she take food between her lips. Then Mr. and Mrs. 
Van Alyn went home again, for Madame was ex- 
hausted with watching, and Courtenay promised to 
let them know hourly by telephone the progress of the 
disease. If anything happened, Bromler assured his 
son-in-law that they could be there in ten minutes. 
“Anything” was said hastily, at a moment when Mrs. 
Van Alyn was not listening. 

On the third night Courtenay was to watch in the 
sick-room, that the nurse might get some sleep. The 
man sat alone in the dim light, Miss Brannit dead 
with slumber in the room beyond, his wife motionless 
upon the bed. Courtenay found it impossible to read, 
and at intervals he dozed in the chair. The medi- 
cines were administered only hourly, and he did not 
care to think much. He had not contracted the per- 
nicious habit of worrying unduly over anything, and 
certainly his wife had never before caused him an 
instant’s anxiety. Though he had not been much in 
love with her at the time, he had not since regretted 
marrying her. He had never ill-treated and had been 
but rarely angry with her, according to his lights. 
Moreover, and above all, he had permitted her always 
to love him as much as she pleased, greatly as her 
affection bored him. On the whole, Courtenay was 
not a bad husband. He felt this as he closed his 
eyes; and, we are told, the sleep of the righteous is 
sound. 

The night was passing quietly. At half-past three 
Miss Brannit awoke and resumed her watch over the 
sick-room, while Courtenay went off to a merited 
leisure. He offered to remain on guard during the 

271 


A SOCIAL LION 


remainder of the night while the nurse finished her 
rest, but upon her quiet refusal he looked once at his 
passive wife and then went away. Five minutes later 
he lay upon a couch in his own room, wrapped in 
profound slumber. 

The next half-hour dragged through slowly. Mrs. 
Courtenay’s pulse was scarcely beating. At ten 
minutes after four Kent came for his last night visit. 
It was the time when vitality is lowest. The doctor 
listened to his patient’s respiration, and then called in 
an unsteady voice for brandy. It was administered, 
but Marie did not swallow it. The nurse chafed her 
arms, hands, and breast lightly, and at twenty minutes 
after four Mrs. Courtenay opened her eyes and 
raised her head from the pillow. 

“Where is Robert?” she asked, in a weak but per- 
fectly natural voice. 

“Call him at once Miss Brannit. ” 

The nurse disappeared, and the doctor remained 
alone with Marie Van Alyn Courtenay. 

“I wanted to see Bob again,” she muttered more 
thickly. “Say good-by to him for me, doctor, my 
love, and remember me — to — Edith and — dear— 
M — r — s. K — e — n — ” She had trailed off at the last 
into a curious society sentence. Custom had been 
too much for her. She had lapsed again into uncon- 
sciousness, and before the nurse had returned with 
Marie’s well-beloved, it had become necessary to 
telephone to the Van Alyns. Something had hap- 
pened. A soul stood shivering on “the other side,” 
and Robert Courtenay was a widower. 


272 


CHAPTER XVII 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 

If the extreme ultras of society in the city had been 
asked what event among their number could have 
given them the greatest shock of astonishment, not 
one of them would ever have thought of replying, 
“The death of Mrs. Robert Courtenay,” but certainly 
nothing devised by themselves could possibly have 
affected them to such a degree as did the decease of 
one of their most valuably dressed members. Of all 
the people in the world, Marie Courtenay was the one 
whom you would least have expected to die. Re- 
garded scientifically, she had done precisely what the 
doctors had predicted. Regarded proverbially, she 
i. should have recovered speedily, to grow, by lapse of 
I years, into a graceful, elderly society woman, most 
desirable as a chaperone, and an autocrat concerning 
dress and debutantes. Her world was shocked, 
t regretful, and most polite and attentive to the be- 
reaved family. Her immediate clique, figuratively 
speaking, went into half-mourning, and asked Cour- 
tenay to small Sunday suppers and select musicals. 
There was a beautiful, impressive, and exclusive 
funeral. Marie had liked to be thought especially 
high church; therefore the church was lighted only 
by great candles about the altar and around the 

273 


A SOCIAL LION 


violet-covered bier, over which stood fifteen or twenty 
of her greatest friends. Behind them all, on that 
dark, January afternoon, the long aisles of the church 
stretched dimly, and gave back low echoes to the 
funeral chant. Only her own family followed her to 
the granite vault in Oakwoods, which before her had 
held only one baby coffin. Robert Courtenay, white, 
silent, and grayer than he had ever seemed before, 
was the last to leave the chapel where she lay. Her 
mother had not been present at all. She seemed 
for the time utterly broken. Malcolm was astonished 
at her words to him when she told him that she could 
not go. 

“I cannot be seen by those people, Malcolm. It 
would be more than I could bear. For many years 
now I have taken part in their exhibitions, but this 
time — no. I said good-by to my daughter when I 
left her this morning. Let me be alone now. If I 
went to the church I might — I should hear Mrs. Kent 
remarking upon my costume.” 

And when Malcolm joined Joan Howard in the 
church he regarded her with more than 'usual tender- 
ness and satisfaction, for she was dressed soberly and 
a little badly in black cloth, the only color about her 
being the ruddy gleam of her hair from beneath the 
heavy veil. Joan herself was strangely downcast and 
silent to-day, for there was a feeling of awe and 
loneliness in her heart such as Marie Van Alyn her- 
self could never have caused her. And this tall, 
downcast, bitter-lipped man, with the gray hair thick 
upon his temples, was this Robert Courtenay, wifeless, 
childless, bondless, now? But the man standing close 
274 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


beside her, with his head turned slightly away, that 
was the man whom she, Joan Howard, was to marry. 
“Alas!” The word came as an inaudible whisper from 
her parted lips, and why she had said it she dared not 
know. 

Both Mrs. Kent and Edith were present. Mrs. 
Kent had come, commanding her daughter to accom- 
pany her, and Edith had obeyed coldly. On certain 
points she was not in sympathy with her mother. 
Nothing since the very beginning of her social career — 
and that had begun on the day that her aristocratic 
family had taken her, a tiny, red, flabby thing into its 
aristocratic arms — had annoyed Mrs. James Bartwick 
Kent so exceedingly as the engagement of Joan How- 
ard to Malcolm Van Alyn. For years Mrs. Kent had 
been slowly collecting the most exquisitely fine pieces 
of linen and lingerie that the Old and New Worlds 
together could offer, confident that in a few months 
more the papers would be filled with accounts of a 
wedding to come, that of her daughter, and with 
columns specially devoted to the wonderful trousseau 
of the bride. Even Edith herself had taken pleasure 
in looking over these delicate things, but now — now 
they were not to be mentioned in her presence. Mrs. 
Kent had made this among other remarks to her hus- 
band on that night when first she had heard of the 
engagement of Stagmar’s niece. Poor little Doctor 
Jim! 

“My dear Louise,” he had said, in a flat, dry 
voice, possibly caused by the Fellowship’s old Port, 
“I have never perceived that Edith was violently in 
love with Malcolm Van Alyn. He is a nice boy, and 

275 


A SOCIAL LION 


the ‘best catch,’ I suppose one would say, of any of 
the young men around town. Nevertheless, if Edith 
is not much in love with him, and since he has shown 
a decided preference for another girl, as he has a per- 
fect right to do, I should counsel you not to give the 
matter another thought. Take Edith to London in 
the spring, and have her presented if you must, but 
for the Lord’s sake don’t cry because she can’t have 
a man who doesn’t want her!” 

Now, Dr. Kent had certainly not been himself 
when he spoke of a possibility of Edith’s being pre- 
sented at London. In a moment of sanity he would 
never have made such a remark, knowing his wife, as 
he certainly did. Therefore he should not have been 
surprised at her reception of such an idea. Sitting 
back suddenly in her elaborate dressing-gown, with a 
new light in her eyes, she remarked with great satis- 
faction: 

‘‘Really, James, that idea of yours about London is 
not bad. I could easily have Edith presented by dear 
Lady Bell, whom my family know very well. And 
certainly during a London season many eligible 
matches might be met with. I had scarcely hoped 
that you — ” 

The idea was progressing so rapidly that the poor 
doctor felt it absolutely necessary to crush it forever 
to earth while he could still cope with it. ‘‘Look 
here, Louise, did you really have any idea that I was 
in earnest when I said that? Well, then, listen now, 
and please remember what I say. I am Edith Kent’s 
father, as well as her guardian, and while I live I 
shall keep that idea before you. Edith may remain 
276 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


an old maid if she likes, and she shall always be pro- 
vided for, but never, with my knowledge, shall she 
be put off upon one of those foreign titles, penniless 
or not, who are accustomed to treat their women as 
secondary to their horses. I have known foreigners 
in my day. Now you have heard, and that is all I 
have to say. ” 

It was sufficient. Mrs. Kent understood, but she 
was not satisfied. She had a great deal more that she 
could have said, and which for once she kept to her- 
self, in order that it might ferment for future use. 
She had not the patience to wait long with it, how- 
ever, and most of it was poured forth next day to 
Edith, who received it unflinchingly upon a silence of 
marble. Most of it related somewhat vulgarly to the 
young lady’s carelessness in letting Malcolm stray 
from her side for a moment. The only hope — and a 
slim one it was — left to Mrs. Kent since the doctor’s 
anti-nobility argument, was the hope of getting Van 
Alyn back. She dilated to Edith upon the impor- 
tance of the family, and finally in an evil moment 
appealed to her daughter’s affection for the scion 
of that house. Here Mrs. Kent discovered too late 
her serious mistake. Edith rose from their tete- 
ci-t£te with quiet, angry dignity. 

“You seem to take it for granted that I loved 
Malcolm Van Alyn. Rid yourself of that delusion. 
I never have loved Malcolm Van Alyn at all in the 
way I was expected to do, for the excellent reason 
that I do love some one else with all the soul that is 
within me.’’ Then Edith fled away, with her face 
flushed, and at her heart a great sense of joyful free- 
277 


A SOCIAL LION 


dom at having made an assertion which to herself 
dared not even assume the form of a confession. 

At her daughter’s totally unsuspected admission 
Mrs. Kent had first risen nervously, then sunk back 
overpowered, her little match-house blazing up and 
smoldering in ashes before her eyes. And so 
absorbed was she in the ruin of her hopes that she 
forgot, for the moment, to be curious. 

I have exposed for your benefit the somewhat 
ignominious plan of action employed in the sanctum 
sanctorum of one family, which was generally so 
carefully kept within bounds that that family’s own 
servants were unaware of its organization. Therefore 
it will not be difficult to realize that in the outer world 
of punctilious courtesy, before her friends and ene- 
mies, Mrs. Kent was entirely different. To no one 
without the family triangle did she ever admit her 
chagrin over Malcolm Van Alyn’s atrocious behavior, 
and although she could not help being rather pointedly 
polite at times to Joan Howard, only one or two sharp- 
eyed people ever pierced the shell which hid her silent 
mortification. The ordinary intercourse between the 
two families was hardly lessened, save by the cessa- 
tion of Malcolm’s frequent and informal calls upon 
Edith. But after Marie’s death there were of course 
the visits of condolence, and two very quiet “family 
dinners,’’ at which the young people were not present; 
and very few people indeed would have perceived any 
difference in the long standing intercourse. In point 
of fact, as Bromler Van Alyn said somewhat hesitat- 
ingly to his wife, the very long standing and infor- 
mality of the old engagement made it the easiest thing 
278 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


in the world to get out of. Edith’s only ring had 
been a tiny little turquoise that Malcolm had given 
her on a birthday when they were children together. 
She had not sent it back, only removed it and laid it 
away in the drawer whence she had taken it five years 
before when Malcolm had gone away to college, and 
had made his farewell to her very tender. 

“The turquoise signifies faith,’’ she thought. “Ah, 
well, we have both grown old enough to lose our belief 
in the immortality of faith.” And here Edith laid her 
head down upon her little antique desk and thought 
for a great while, seriously. 

Mrs. Kent was not alone in her opinion that Mal- 
colm had behaved in a manner anything but gentle- 
manly to his friendly fiancee. For more than 
three weeks after his engagement — indeed, until after 
his sister’s death — he had scarcely seen her, though 
a word of explanation made in some way would have 
seemed an absolute necessity. And Malcolm himself 
was the one who felt his discourtesy most keenly. 
Ever since that five minutes with Joan Howard in the 
orchid house he had been seeking an opportunity to 
find Edith alone. Three or four times he had tried 
to get up his courage to enter their house, but always 
he had turned coward in the end, till now so much 
time had passed that he felt it infinitely harder than 
ever to do. 

It was three days after Marie’s funeral that he 
made peace with his conscience. The Van Alyns’ 
was a desolate home during those days, and suddenly 
his life seemed very aimless. Upon this particular 
afternoon he found himself strolling idly down Prairie 

279 


A SOCIAL LION 


Avenue with no object whatever in view. As he 
approached the Kents’ residence he found his eyes 
fixed intently upon it. Three minutes later, scarcely 
conscious of how he had come there, he was before 
the door and pressing the bell. A moment after, he 
was admitted, and heard, vaguely, that Miss Kent 
was at home; next, that she would be down immedi- 
ately. He laid aside his hat, coat, and stick, and 
wondered nervously what he was going to say when 
she did come. It was a dream to him so far. 

He was brought to himself when she entered the 
library, taking no notice of the hand which he had un- 
wittingly held toward her. They sat down opposite 
one another, and Edith looked for him to begin, 
which he did not do. 

The pause was becoming startling, and Malcolm’s 
face was as red as possible, when the young lady, who 
found it difficult to speak to him, remarked with 
apparent ease: “It is really a very long time since I 
have seen you to speak with you, Malcolm. Although 
it is rather late, and I have already seen Miss How- 
ard several times, will you allow me to congratulate 
you most heartily upon your approaching marriage?’’ 

It had been naturally said, and Malcolm, without 
any conceit, wondered how she could seem so tranquil 
and smile so readily over a matter which had cost him 
so many sleepless nights. All at once he felt like 
a man who has wantonly committed some peculiarly 
despicable crime. He was not thinking of Joan just 
now. To tell the truth, when he was not in her pres- 
ence Helen Howard’s daughter was not the same to 
him. At critical moments he was quite likely to for- 
280 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


get her altogether. Just now the queenliness of 
Edith Kent’s personality seemed to him rarer, more 
beautiful, and more perfect than he had ever known 
it. At her words he grew pale, but in his answer 
he did not hesitate. 

“Thank you, Edith. What I came for to-day was 
to say something that I have been wanting to tell 
you, and ought to have spoken about long ago. I — 
I — well, of course, you know that up to a few weeks 
ago there was a sort of understanding between us. 
By most people we were considered engaged. When 
my engagement to Joan Howard was announced I 
hate to think what a cad you must have believed me. 
I know — why, of course, I know, Edith, that you had 
every right to expect me to hold to our engagement 
while time should last. And I swear to you that I 
meant to have done so. Then one night you prob- 
ably read in the papers that I belonged to her. It 
was true, all true. And I never came to you with a 
single word of explanation! Oh, I know how it must 
have looked to you. Yet perhaps I had a little bit 
more excuse for it than you might have believed. 
You know the night that I — I — told her I cared for 
her. It was at the Brents’ dance. Do you remember 
how I rushed up and dragged her away from Garth, 
when she was beside you?’’ Edith nodded. “I think 
I was crazy, almost, then. Until I waltzed around 
the room with her I had no more idea of asking her to 
marry me than — than — you — have of marrying her 
uncle.’’ Edith winced at the blunder. Malcolm had 
paused fora moment retrospectively; then went on 
again. 


281 


A SOCIAL LION 


“We were in the little conservatory. There was 
not much light there, and it was awfully hot. Some- 
how it seemed to set me all on fire. I saw Joan 
standing near me with her head half bent, looking as 
though she wanted to get away from me. Something 
came over me with that idea that drove me mad. 
What devil’s fascination that girl holds for me I can’t 
tell. I got down on my knees to her right there and 
tried — to tell her how I felt. There was only one 
way of expressing it. Oh! curse that hour! — ■’’ 

“Stop, Malcolm!’’ cried Edith, rising to her feet. 
“What are you saying? How dared you use such 
words to me about a woman who is to be your wife!’’ 

Malcolm stared at her for a moment. It was true 
that he had lost every vestige of self-control as the 
remembrance^ of the scene came back to him in his 
changed mood. He had flung forth all the bitterness 
that he had hitherto held down within himself. At 
Edith’s interruption he flushed scarlet. 

“Oh, Edith!’’ he cried out. “I came here hoping 
to get back a little of your respect for me, and now 
more than ever I have forfeited all the claim I ever 
had to it. No. Don’t say anything to me. I saw 
how you looked at me just now. I won’t ask your 
pardon. It will only make things worse. Good-by. 
I — I wish you knew — ’’ 

Poor fellow! He turned slowly but resolutely 
away from her to leave the room. Edith stood 
motionless watching him till he had put on his coat 
and gloves and took up his hat. He went down the 
steps into the entry. His hand touched the handle 
of the door. Suddenly Edith sprang impulsively for- 
282 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


ward, and called with a shaky note in her voice, 
“Malcolm! Malcolm, you — will — still come, some- 
times?” 

Malcolm looked up at her face, scarcely believing 
her words till he saw it. Then he went back again, 
and took both her hands in his. “You mean that, 
Edith? You want me — sometimes?” 

“Yes, Malcolm — I — am — sorry.” 

The last words were almost less than a murmur, 
but Malcolm with his head bent near her caught them, 
and for days afterward when he thought of them his 
breast thumped queerly. As he turned reluctantly to 
cross the threshold their meaning was not clear to 
him, yet when he looked up at her again, and found 
her eyes following him with a new light in them he 
tried not to think. She was too much at ease with 
him for — that. Was she only sorry for his confessed 
mistake? Bah! She need not be. He was indignant 
| at the very thought now of not being happy with 
Joan. A moment later and he found himself regret- 
ting having gone at all to her. Heigho! Poor Mal- 
colm was surrounded by a group of mocking and 
unreasonably lovely might-have-beens. 

Our all-too-ardent devotee of Aphrodite proceeded 
down the avenue with no pleasant expression of 
countenance. Presently a black-gloved hand fell 
upon his shoulder, and he turned to encounter the 
smiling eyes of his brother-in-law. Now, during these 
first days of his mourning, Courtenay managed to keep 
his face in perfectly subdued order, but Courtenay’s 
eyes were another thing. To tell the truth the rear 
view of Malcolm on an afternoon in winter was rather 

283 


A SOCIAL LION 


amusing. Of late months he had seriously assumed 
a chimney-pot hat, which was scarcely adapted to his 
somewhat short, square, muscular figure. Moreover, 
he was attached to that top-hat, and never wore it 
without an air unconsciously assumed for the occasion. 
For a couple of blocks Courtenay had been enjoying 
himself hugely at the boy’s expense, and had ap- 
proached him for the fell purpose of rallying him 
about it. But it happened that just now was an 
unlucky time to indulge in chaff at Malcolm’s appear- 
ance, for, as Courtenay began drawlingly to speak, 
Malcolm shook off his hand, and with still darker face 
wheeled abruptly about, and disappeared down a side 
street. It was impolitic, particularly at this time, but 
at the moment it would have been difficult for young 
Van Alyn to endure company. 

Courtenay went on, sobered and annoyed. He had 
sometimes wondered of late whether, since he had 
given up his residence and gone instead into rooms at 
the club, with only his valet to attend him, his wife’s 
family would gradually drop him. It would scarcely 
better his somewhat precarious social position if they 
did so, and certainly this reception of young Van 
Alyn’s had had that appearance. Nay, it was rather 
too pointed for anything of the sort. Courtenay 
shrugged his shoulders lightly and crossed into the 
avenue also. He was a long way down now, nearly 
opposite to Stagmar’s house. He wondered if Mal- 
colm had gone there, and felt half tempted to follow 
him. It was not necessary. Malcolm could not have 
entered, for there was Joan Howard’s slender figure 
descending the steps, and turning off in the same 
284 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


direction in which Courtenay was walking. He gave 
a smile of satisfaction, and quickened his pace. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Howard.” 

“What! Mr. Courtenay! Where did you spring 
from?” 

“The club window possibly — to tell the truth I 
was so astonished to see you on foot that I hastened to 
come up with you in order to find how it happens.” 

She laughed. “You think that I do not exercise? 
That proves conclusively, Mr. Courtenay, that you 
rise very late in the morning.” 

“Why?” He was not heeding her words, but 
watching the delicate shades of expression that crossed 
her face as she spoke. 

“Because I take my constitutional regularly from 
nine to ten, and I nearly always pass the windows of 
the club. It is so forlorn at that hour that I like to 
contrast it with what it becomes later. I suppose, 
though, that it is not so forlorn very, very early in 
the morning— is it?” 

He laughed, looking down at her smiling face mean- 
ingly, but made no other reply to her question. “Let 
me walk with you now,” he said, and he was pleased 
with her quick look toward him as she nodded with 
involuntary pleasure. 

“And if we walk, why not go somewhere at least? 
It is such work — to walk without an object. Let me 
take you up to Chatsworth’s. He has finished the 
new Magdalene, and you should most certainly see 
it.” 

“I have already seen two Magdalenes of his,” she 
said, as they turned off into a new direction. “He 
285 


A SOCIAL LION 


seems to run to that sort of thing, does he not? Both 
of ours are hideous. Uncle keeps one of them in his 
study directly over his desk. She is so pallidly malig- 
nant that he likes to horrify himself with her, I think. ” 

Courtenay laughed. “I’ve seen that one, too,” he 
said. “But the one Horace has just done is not at 
all hideous. It is very beautiful and an ideal concep- 
tion of the Magdalene. It has your face.” 

Joan flushed. She had that in her nature which 
made her like the tone of confidential familiarity 
which this man used toward her, but she found it hard 
to keep her presence of mind in his company. She 
was never so ill at ease and never so nervously happy 
as with him. One quick glance from his searching, 
changeable eyes, and everything else was forgotten 
save that she was where she most wished and most 
feared to be, — with him. It was not a short walk to 
the studio, but neither of them felt its length. Cour- 
tenay himself was peculiarly sensitive to the fasci- 
nation of Joan Howard’s manner, more so perhaps than 
most men, for his whole organization was netted 
with nerve-fibers which responded more easily to this 
species of emotion than any other. He was sensuous 
to a degree, and to-day more than ever the music of 
the beautiful girl’s voice rang through his ears and 
heart with hauntingly keen delight. 

There were but two more blocks to go, and in 
crossing a street the couple were obliged to wait for 
a coup£ which was coming rapidly toward them. 

“Eleanor Felton,” said Courtenay in Joan’s ear, 
and at the same moment through the window of the 
carriage came a nod and a curious smile from that 
286 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


eccentric personage, while upon the other side of her 
a bunch of plumes waved stiffly, and Miss Howard 
caught a frigidly courteous recognition from Mrs. 
Kent. Courtenay’s lip curled amusedly as he raised 
his hat. 

“Queer combination, those two,” said he. 
“They’ve been growing very chummy lately. Have 
you noticed it?’’ 

This was true, strange as it seemed for Mrs. Kent 
to be “chummy’’ with any one. Some weeks before 
Mrs. J. Bartwick had remarked composedly to the doc- 
tor that she intended to get up a new fad. What 
would he advise? She had thought of collections, 
pipes, or crystals, or perhaps heavy music, Brahms or 
Tchaikowsky — if one could keep awake; then there 
were also geniuses. Upon the whole, they were best, 
she thought. To get in with modified Bohemia — 
artists of good family, ditto literati, entertain visiting 
virtuosos — in short become a lion huntress? Eh? 
What did he think? She was charmed with the last 
idea, as she thought it over more thoroughly. Doc- 
tor Kent did not have much to say, as he was not 
particularly interested in lions, being rather exclu- 
sively devoted to bacteria at present. But his wife 
was wrapped in her plan, and as a preliminary, 
set out to court Eleanor, who knew everybody of that 
description. Eleanor was aware that she was being 
“taken up,’’ but she merely laughed, and began studi- 
ously to affect Mrs. Kent. It was rather an amusing 
task after all. She had just shocked that classically 
moral lady immeasurably by taking her to see Mrs. 
Fiske as Tess of the d’Urbervilles, telling her that it 
287 


A SOCIAL LION 


was the marvel of the century in the way of acting. 
When Mrs. Kent had not been bored she had been as- 
tounded indeed. After Eleanor had informed her fol- 
lower that she herself had seen it five times, and ranked 
it over any play that Bernhardt had done, poor Mrs. 
Kent sighed, and began to think that the road through 
Bohemia held more quirls and dark corners than she 
had ever imagined. Yet verily she stood only on the 
outer boundaries of the land as yet. 

When, however, the metamorphosed society woman 
watched 'Joan Howard and Courtenay disappearing 
down the street, apparently entirely absorbed in each 
other, she felt that once again she was on ground 
she knew. 

“I consider it excessively imprudent of Herbert 
Stagmar to let — ” she began, as soon as they had 
passed the couple. 

“So do I,” broke in Eleanor rapidly, for she was 
not too fond of Mrs. Kent’s endless dissertations, and 
one of the advantages of eccentricity is the being 
able to make whatever breach in the polite code of 
rules that you wish. “Silly of Herbert to get a girl 
like that on his hands and then not hurry and get her 
off. If I were her guardian I should marry her 
myself, I think.” 

Mrs. Kent was shocked, but not alarmed. “My 
dear Miss Felton!” she expostulated. 

“Well, then,” pursued Eleanor, calmly, “since 
there is really no need of that, Joan being already 
engaged, I should hurry on her wedding as fast as 
possible. What she does afterward will not matter.” 

Mrs. Kent was perturbed now. Stagmar might 
288 


MRS. KENT AND OTHERS 


entertain these views himself. “My dear Eleanor, 
recollect how serious marriage is, and how very young 
Miss Howard is — is supposed to be.” 

Eleanor did her best not to laugh. “For a girl of 
her temperament she’s old enough, and Malcolm can 
certainly take care of himself.’’ 

Mrs. Kent winced, but still showed marvelous for- 
bearance. “Really, I cannot agree with you there. 
Twenty-six is not an advanced age for a young man.’’ 

“Perhaps. I was only putting forth my views as 
to her management. For myself, I sympathize with 
Joan. I consider Robert Courtenay infinitely more 
interesting than Malcolm Van Alyn. ’’ 

Mrs. Kent merely raised a lorgnette. The act irri- 
| tated Eleanor far more than anything the poor woman 
could have said. This time she determined to punish 
her affector effectually. 

“Dear Mrs. Kent! I’ve an idea! It is nowhere 
near time to do anything for evening yet. You must 
come with me to Horace Chatsworth’s rooms. His 
studio is not five minutes from here. He’s sure to 
have a lot of people there to-day. Saturday afternoon, 
you know, and besides that, his new picture is fin- 
ished. You must certainly see it.’’ Without giving 
the other a chance to disclaim, Eleanor gave the order 
to the footman, and they turned up the avenue. 

Mrs. Kent sighed heavily. Nobody knew how tired 
she was. She would go to see Horace’s picture if 
necessary. She disliked pictures intensely. But she 
would not stay long in the studio. Upon that point 
her mind was firm. 


289 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE STUDIO 

Early on the Saturday afternoon, whose later hours 
were to bring him four such distinguished and unhoped- 
for guests, Chatsworth sat alone in his studio, medi- 
tating. For several days he had been unable to do a 
stroke of work worth leaving on the canvas, and his 
room looked it. Two covered pictures leaned up 
against the wall, and a third canvas stood crookedly 
upon an easel in the center of the room. On this 
scarcely begun picture the paint lay in thickly daubed 
patches, bearing no likeness whatsoever to any form, 
unless the shadowy gray outline in the center was some 
day to become a head and bring into subjection the 
blatant tints surrounding it, making something artistic 
out of the whole. Chatsworth made no pretense of 
working. He lounged in a chair near the window, a 
meerschaum, well-browned, between his teeth, a vol- 
ume of Kant upon his knee, and one hardy hand pull- 
ing at his thick brown beard, a habit of his when he 
was trying to fix his mind on anything. He was not 
reading. His eyes were fastened upon the small canvas 
in the corner as though he could see through the cloth 
which bound it; and was contemplating the features 
of his third Magdalene. From the ragged condition 
290 


THE STUDIO 


of his dressing-gown and slippers it was plain that he 
looked for no visitors this afternoon. 

At a few minutes past three came a vigorous ring 
of the bell from below. He went to the door, opened 
it, and peered down the narrow hall. Two men were 
clambering up the last flight, and having reached the 
top, came toward his rooms, still panting after the 
many stairs. Horace could not distinguish their 
features until they got into the light from his own 
rooms, then, however, he hurried forward and grasped 
their hands heartily. 

“This is good — fine. Jove! It’s a long time since 
you’ve been here, Mr. Stagmar. And, Kent, how 
are you? Come now, get your things off and your 
pipes lit. Mine’s out. Take the couches there; 
they’re better than the chairs. All right now?” 

A grunt came from Kent when the young artist had 
finished pushing them into place, and Stagmar puffed 
contentedly for a moment before he drew his knees 
up and said, “You haven’t forgotten the old ways at 
any rate, Horace. ’’ 

“No, bless them! and I never will.” 

“That’s right, boy,’’ muttered Kent, roughly. 

Silence for five minutes, then Stagmar lifted one 
limb and tilted it comfortingly over the other, 
remarking: “Queer thing you’ve got there, Horace. 
What is it? Study of a crazy-quilt, or one of harmon- 
ization of unharmonious color?’’ He pointed as he 
spoke to the half-begun picture. 

“Neither,” replied the artist, pleasantly. “It will 
be great when it — comes out.” 

“When’s it coming?” queried the doctor, lazily. 

291 


A SOCIAL LION 


“That’s more than I can say,” responded Chats- 
worth, lapsing into apathy. “I don’t know whether 
I shall ever paint again.” 

“What’s the matter? Somebody jilted you?” 

Stagmar smiled at the quick look of disgust that 
came into the artist’s face at the words. “No; 
hardly, thank the Lord ! The fact is I only wish that 
I could jilt something myself.” 

“Widow?” asked the doctor with interest. 

Chatsworth burst into a great guffaw. “It’s not 
a woman,” he answered. “It’s this beastly city.” 

“The city,” asked Kent, quickly. “What is the 
matter with the city? I have never found fault with 
it?” 

“It’s first-rate for doctors.” 

“ Mats — le quartier Latin pour les artistes ,” put in 
Stagmar, enjoying the doctor’s expression as he 
peered over the back of his divan to examine the 
writer’s face. Kent had few yearnings toward the 
acquirement of modern languages. The artist, how- 
ever, was not worried over words. 

“That’s it, damn it!” he remarked, without vio- 
lence. “It’s getting next to impossible for me to do 
anything here. There’s no more conception of art in 
this place than there would be in Tartarus.” 

“Less, I should say,” put in Stagmar. “Some 
very distinguished artists doubtless repose in Tar- 
tarus.” 

“To wit?” queried their disciple. 

“To wit, Michael Angelo!” shouted Kent, joyous 
at finding himself once more on ground of his own. 
“If they didn’t stuff him down into a heated temper- 
292 


THE STUDIO 


ature after that ‘Last Judgment’ of his in the con- 
founded Sistine Chapel, why, Peter is getting too 
infirm for his position, that’s all.” 

“Lucky for you if he is,” grunted Chatsworth, who 
had never seen the Sistine Chapel, but objected to 
having the traditions of his craft put so outrageously 
at naught. Stagmar, however, applauded, and smiled 
comfortably. 

“Good boy, Kent. Stick to your own ideas about 
things you don’t understand. It is always rejuvenat- 
ing. Fancy the husband of Mrs. J. Bartwick daring 
to disapprove of the divine Buonarotti!” the last sen- 
tence was muttered under his breath, for his own 
benefit; but his little humor was broken off by the 
meditative tones of the doctor, whose ideas had taken 
another turn. 

“These little arguments are like old times, too. 
You can remember Herbert and me in the old days, 
can’t you, Horace?” 

“Remember you! As well as I do my father!” 

And from here the conversation trailed off into 
reminiscences of other days which lie long before our 
story. One sentence only — that which closed a long 
talk — may be worth inserting here. Horace was 
speaking. 

“Kent has grown older in figure ; not so very much 
in face, it seems to me. You’ve changed more, Stag- 
mar. Your [face used to be quite open and cheerful. 
I can remember your desperation the winter you failed 
with your mustache, you know. But you aren’t the 
same now. The lines are heavy around your mouth 
and eyes, and you look careworn, as you never used 

293 


A SOCIAL LION 


to do. Somehow you are more severe, more unap- 
proachable. Oh, I beg pardon; I didn’t mean to be 
personal. I didn’t think of that, you know.” 

When Horace finished Kent was studying the writer 
seriously. He did not speak, but nodded to himself 
once or twice, contemplatively, as Stagmar smiled 
rather soberly, and answered: “Don’t apologize, 
Horace. Your father wouldn’t have done so. It’s 
true, what you said.” 

The afternoon was far gone now, and the older 
men shook out their pipes, rose reluctantly, and put 
on their ties. Horace dived into a little corner closet, 
from which he extracted a somewhat battered samo- 
var, tea, lemons, a box of biscuits, and something 
brown in a large flask. Jim Kent, who had been 
lighting lamps, immediately seized upon this latter 
article, and, being in a light-hearted mood, held it 
aloft, and began to execute a certain Indian dance 
for which he had once been celebrated. His short 
legs fairly flew through the air, and from his ample 
mouth issued a succession of astounding grunts and 
shrieks. Stagmar, catching the spirit of the moment, 
grasped a palette-knife, and followed his leader, round 
and round the table, with a series of crouching steps 
and leaps, his hair over his forehead, his lungs inflated 
vigorously with air, which he emitted in spasms of 
magnificent yells. All the abandon of Bohemian days 
was upon them again. 

In the midst of this tumult Horace glided unnoticed 
to answer the bell. Without the door stood Cour- 
tenay and Joan. The former was highly amused at 
Miss Howard’s wide-eyed astonishment over the noise 
294 


THE STUDIO 


from within, and her wonder certainly did not lessen 
when she recognized, through the frame of the ante- 
room portiere, the two leaping figures in the room 
beyond, as her father and pompous little Doctor Jim. 
She was about to speak to Chatsworth, who was bowing 
over her hand, when Robert, who had been peering 
down the stairway, turned to them with his eyes 
gleaming. 

“Oh, Miss Howard!” he whispered, “here come 
Mrs. Kent and Miss Felton. For heaven’s sake don’t 
stop the fun! I want to study Mrs. Kent’s expres- 
sion when she sees J. Bartwick. ” 

A ring from below confirmed his words, and the 
three at the door shook with laughter. Joan, enter- 
ing into the spirit of the moment, murmured a word 
to the two men, who forthwith rushed in together to 
join the dance, which was steadily increasing in noise 
and jollity. The contretemps in the ante-room had 
scarcely lasted two minutes. Joan remained in the 
doorway to receive the two ladies, whose rustling 
skirts could even now be heard on the steep little 
stairs. Mrs. Kent was astounded, curious, and, withal, 
rather nervous at breaking into the tremendous 
crescendo of wild sounds coming from above; and to 
tell the truth, Eleanor herself was a little astonished 
at the noise. But she had rashly determined to drag 
her silken-shod explorer through to the end of the 
strange country she had wished to see, and this resolve 
Eleanor was going to keep. 

“My dear Eleanor, what do you imagine is hap- 
pening?” murmured Mrs. Kent for the fourth time, at 
least, on the stairs. 


295 


A SOCIAL LION 


“This? Oh, this is the most common thing in the 
world; you would not think much of it had you known 
studio life as I have,” responded Eleanor at last, in 
her most matter-of-fact manner. 

“Dear, dear! How curious it must all be!” said 
the poor lady. 

They reached the ante-room, the door of which 
stood widely open. The little place was dark, and 
Joan, who could not trust herself to speak, did not at 
once come forward. It was indeed a strange sight. 
The light from three lamps in the studio brilliantly 
illumined that room, but it was the flickering flame 
of the samovar that shone on the faces of the four 
men, who now stood around the table, their hands 
clasped high, indulging in the swinging, swaying steps 
which actually mark part of an Indian festival dance. 
Hoots, shouts, and hoarse yells issued from four stout 
throats. Mrs. Kent gasped as she recognized Robert 
Courtenay opposite her. But when presently the cir- 
cle moved on again, Kent and Stagmar, entirely 
unconscious of onlookers, Courtenay and Chatsworth 
aching with suppressed laughter, the conspirators 
took care to stop again at half round, and Kent faced 
the ante-room. Jim was in all the satisfaction of a 
gurgling howl, when suddenly Stagmar, with an excla- ' 
mation, dropped his hand. 

“James!” came a tremulous but imperative voice. 

The doctor gave a quick jerk, and stopped still, his 
flushed cheeks growing white. Stagmar’s face was 
tinged with color. Robert and Horace dropped help- 
lessly into chairs, and three ladies entered. 

Matters were explained gracefully and without 
296 


THE STUDIO 




delay. Mrs. Kent had been too utterly stunned to 
be difficult of approach, and besides that the doctor’s 
company had certainly been excellent. Nevertheless, 
Kent continued to look a trifle dubious, and Stagmar, 
as he quizzically examined his daughter’s expression, 
declared that never before in his life had he felt so 
extremely young. 

The disordered room was quickly set to rights. 

! Miss Felton was seated before the tea arrangement — 
from which the brown flask had opportunely disap- 
peared — and Mrs. Kent was at liberty to use her 
lorgnette, while Chatsworth passed cups and made 
himself generally useful and agreeable. Many apolo- 
gies were made by him for the state of his apartment, 
but as the ladies seemed to be a trifle astonished at this 
and to imagine that such was the ordinary condition 
of art, he finally ceased from disclaimers. 

Joan was anxious to see the covered pictures in the 
corner, and as Chatsworth was earnestly endeavoring 
to explain the “color study’’ to Mrs. Kent, Courtenay 
followed the girl to the others. Stagmar and the 
doctor were devoting themselves to portfolios, tea, 
and Miss Felton. Courtenay knelt beside the smaller 
canvas, and Joan, sending one quivering glance into 
his responsive eyes, sank into a chair beside him, her 
elbow on an arm of the chair, her head on her hand. 

“This is the Magdalene,’’ said Courtenay in a 
low tone, throwing the cotton cloth back from the 
finished head. Joan did not speak. She was looking 
not at the Magdalene, but at the strong profile of the 
man beside her. Slowly his gray-green eyes were 
raised to hers. There was a deep laugh of triumph in 
297 


A SOCIAL LION 


them, but the girl shivered. “Joan!” he muttered, 
half to himself, with his lips dry. The name struck 
her ears, and made her heart throb once. She almost 
smiled, leaned forward, and her hand fell into his, 
which was very cold. 

“Oh, I see, dear Mr. Chatsworth! How delightful 
it will be when it is finished. Ah! Art is the only 
thing, after all! How often I have said to James 
that I could live for that alone!” 

Kent grinned unpardonably at Horace, who turned 
hastily away from him, but had control enough not to 
betray himself. 

“Horace, show them the large picture you were at 
work upon when I was here last. The Phryne, don’t 
you know? Miss Howard is already seizing upon the 
other. ” This in Eleanor’s well-modulated tones, with, 
however, rather more meaning in the last phrase than 
was politic. Stagmar glanced quickly at her, then at 
his niece, who, standing by Courtenay, was directing 
his placing of the little picture on an easel. The 
great picture was before them, covered. 

Chatsworth came and stood close by Miss Felton, 
undecidedly for a moment; then he whispered 
anxiously to her: “Would it be wise to show the 
Phryne, do you think? These hardly seem to me the 
people to appreciate it, and accept it for what it is 
meant to be. ” 

Eleanor laughed. “Oh, I am initiating Mrs. Kent 
in the methods of art. She will not dare say anything 
critical of it. ” 

“Yes, but — but — ” A glance finished his sen- 
tence. 


298 


THE STUDIO 


Miss Felton’s face grew serious. She glanced from 
Stagmar to Courtenay. “True,” she murmured. 
Then aloud, “No, Horace, I fancy you had better 
not.” 

Chatsworth nodded and turned away. But it was 
not so easy now to escape showing the picture. They 
were all around him, demanding, with something more 
than mere politeness, to see his painting; all, that is, 
save Stagmar, whose fingers drummed impatiently on 
the table as he watched Joan’s face. 

“My dear Chatsworth,” he now broke in suavely, 
“it is really time for my au revoir. Joan and I will 
walk home together. I have not ordered the carriage 
since I did not expect her. We dine a trifle earlier 
than the rest of you, I fancy.” 

The others would have urged his staying, but 
Eleanor said immediately : “Take my coupe, Herbert. 
It is too long a walk for Miss Howard. Send it back 
for us when you reach home; we shall be ready to go 
also by then. ” 

Joan was willing to leave. Enough had happened 
for one evening. Courtenay put her heavy cloak 
about her. “You will let me see you soon?” he asked 
her, without much reason for the remark. For the 
moment her fascination was lost over him. Therefore 
he was uncomfortably startled by her significant 
reply. 

“In a week. Only give me a little time.” 

She did not look at him, fearing to trust herself; 
therefore she did not see his shoulders go up, nor read 
the scorn of her in his eyes. Had she done this — 

When they were gone Mrs. Kent once more renewed 
299 


A SOCIAL LION 


the plea for a view of the picture, and it is to be 
feared that even in that model of decorum there was 
just an atom of reprehensible curiosity about certain 
things. At any rate, this time Horace merely smiled 
somewhat mischievously, and before he exhibited the 
portrait he put in a word of explanation. 

“You see, Mrs. Kent, every artist has dreams of 
Paris and the salon. This picture was painted more 
with an ambition of the chatnbre d'honneur , the line, 
and the prix de Rome , than with the idea of selling it 
in the practical West. I have always said that when 
the last shadow was in, to Paris it should go, to be 
sold there. It is not more than three-fourths finished 
now. There it is — an ideal portrait of Phryne. ” 

As he spoke he threw back the cover from his work 
and stood in the shadow of it scanning the expres- 
sions of his guests. Eleanor Felton was frankly ad- 
miring, Mrs. Kent struggled not to be shocked, the 
doctor tried as hard to be severe, and Courtenay was 
critically contemplative. They gazed at it in silence 
for a moment, then Courtenay, the irrepressible, said 
for the benefit of Mrs. J. Bartwick : 

“The flesh wants more green shadow straight 
through. It’s frightfully healthy and rose-maddery 
now. Then drop the cloth a little more over the left 
shoulder so as to bring out the dark line between 
the arm and the body. That’ll do' it all, I should 
say. ’ ’ 

Chatsworth nodded appreciatively, for the criti- 
cism was not unreasonable. But Mrs. Kent, feeling 
it her duty, broke in quite impetuously: 

“Oh, really, Mr. Courtenay, it would quite ruin 
300 


THE STUDIO 


the painting to darken the lines a bit more. Such an 
exquisite picture! But the face is extremely pale — do 
not you think so? Why not add rouge? It would be 
so harmonious with her character!” 

Jim paid no attention to her. “The skin js too 
dark,” he was muttering absent-mindedly, but was 
roused and startled a little by an indignant look from 
his lady and her satisfied question, “Is it oil or 
water-color, Mr. Chatsworth?” 

Horace actually blushed. Eleanor bit her lips hard, 
but had to turn away in the end. Jim’s disgust knew 
no bounds, but Courtenay maintained his reputation 
and saved the day at the same time. 

“Water-color, dear Mrs. Kent,” he said, sooth- 
ingly. “Anything as large as that is very rarely 
trusted to oils. ” 

Eleanor came back then, and led a sensible 
conversation herself until Chatsworth, who was woe- 
fully chagrined at their reception of his masterpiece, 
covered it over again. “Oh, if Herbert could only 
have been here!” he muttered rather bitterly. But 
there was a pleasant smile in the midst of his shaggy 
beard for his last guests as they now turned to go. 
The coup£ had returned. The ladies departed 
together, leaving Jim and Courtenay to walk at their 
leisure. When they had all gone the artist flung him- 
self violently upon a chair, an empty briar-wood in his 
mouth, a heavy scowl on his face. 

“I’ll begin the finish of that wretched thing to-mor- 
row,” he cried, stamping on the floor. “I loathe it. 
When it’s done I’ll present it to a half-orphan asylum, 
or some such abode, as a chromo. Then I will go to 
3 QI 


A SOCIAL LION 


designing posters for a living. Art! Good Lord! 
These people don’t know what the word means!” 

“Eleanor,” Mrs. Kent was saying at the same 
time, “do you know, I think that I shall persuade 
James tojget the large picture when it is finished? It 
will help me to appreciate the beauties of realism, 
which I fear I cannot comprehend just yet. Do you 
think that we could obtain it?” 

And Eleanor, rejoicing over an opportunity for 
Chatsworth, answered with some dubiousness: “I can 
hardly say, Mrs. Kent, whether he would be willing 
to sell it here, where the value of such work is so lit- 
tle appreciated. I should advise your offering rather 
a high price for it. ” 

“Dear, dear! I trust that we shall be able to obtain 
it!” cried the other. “I shall request James to speak 
for it to-morrow. Horace is such a talented fellow — 
and — and so remarkably eccentric!” 


302 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 

One afternoon, eight days after the affair at the 
studio, Miss Howard sat idly before her dressing- 
table, toying with some of those delicate little instru- 
ments indispensable to the happiness and welfare of 
any society woman or girl. She had arrayed herself 
to her entire satisfaction in a neglige of heavy white 
corded silk, which swept in classic lines down her 
figure and about her feet on the floor. The long locks 
of her bright red hair fell loosely about her cheeks 
and over her shoulders far below her waist. During 
the months of her society life her face had lost the 
little color it had once possessed, and now gleamed 
ivory white and clear as a pearl from its ruddy frame. 
Her white feet had half thrust aside their swansdown 
slippers and rested in delicate indolence upon the lit- 
tle fox-fur rug before her chair. Joan leaned back, 
critically contemplating her reflection in the mirror. 
She was too vain to appear in the least conscious of 
herself, for in her own eyes, and in the eyes of some 
others also, no woman she had ever seen was 
comparable to her. One there was, perhaps, whom 
years had made more superb; but only one, and that 
her mother. 

3°3 


A SOCIAL LION 


In the midst of this contented soliloquy Miss How- 
ard^ maid came to the door bearing a card. The 
girl glanced at it, smiled faintly, and said that she 
would be down immediately. “Here, Annette, hurry 
with my hair, please. He is early,” she thought to 
herself as she threw off the dressing-gown. 

Robert Courtenay lolled comfortably back in one 
of the drawing-room chairs, lazily partaking of choco- 
lates from a bonbonniere on a small stand beside him. 
Stagmar was not at home. Courtenay knew that. 
He knew also that the writer was gone to a special 
meeting of some members of the Board of Trade, to 
which he, Courtenay, had not been asked. The cut, 
however, did not annoy him, since it presented him 
with an excellent opportunity of spending an hour or 
two with Miss Howard alone. To tell the truth, 
Courtenay was beginning to feel a certain amount of 
intercourse with Joan Howard to be indispensable to 
his personal happiness. The girl roused many forces 
usually dormant in his nature, and she could also 
completely fascinate him when she did not try. Cour- 
tenay had in him too much of the dare-devil not to 
enjoy fingering fire occasionally. Just how it would 
all end he did not know, and he did not care to know. 
He preferred living in the present; and the choco- 
late creams were satisfactory, until, at the end of fif- 
teen minutes, he rose expectantly, hearing the sound 
of skirts on the staircase. 

His eyes were full upon her as she entered, and 
noted every detail of the carefully careless toilet. As 
she sank into the chair from which he had risen, he 
drew a low, cushioned, backless seat toward her and 
3°4 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 


sat down in such a position that no expression of her 
face would be lost to him. 

“I have given you a week,” he began, lightly. “I 
could not deny myself longer. Are you satisfied?” 

Joan smiled slowly. ‘‘I wonder why I told you 
not to come for a week?” she said, demurely, glanc- 
ing at him from under the white lids. 

“You wanted me — to give you time.” 

“Really! Do you always remember people’s exact 
words?” 

“I remember your words. But I should like better 
to know what you meant,” he hazarded. 

“And do you fancy that I can remember for eight 
whole days what I meant by one ridiculous speech 
on that tumultuous occasion?” 

“Then you didn’t do it?” he asked, rapidly. 

Joan looked both startled and confused. She said 
nothing in words, but she knew that Courtenay read 
her reply. 

“Poor Mai!” he laughed. 

The girl had not the courage to treat this un- 
bounded impudence as it deserved. She scarcely 
knew what to do. “Do you really know what I meant 
by that, Mr. Courtenay?” 

“Not unless you want me to.” 

“You speak as though you despised me immeasur- 
ably.” 

“I don’t despise you, Joan. Worse than that — 
you — you — ” He stopped, looking at her apprehen- 
sively. She had twisted into the attitude of a cat 
crouching for its prey. Her face was thrown up, her 
ears, as ^Eneas’ were, pricked up to hear. Only she 
305 


A SOCIAL LION 


listened not for the clash of arms and clang of trum- 
pets. Her spell was heavy over the man beside her. 
Courtenay’s eyes could not leave her face. In the 
moment when she smiled she was fearful. For the 
first time in his life Courtenay began to feel that he 
had met his conqueror. 

“Great God!” he muttered, hoarsely, “I love 
you!” 

She held out to him one white, steely hand. Grasp- 
ing it, he sank to his knees beside her on the floor. 
The sweat broke out upon his forehead. The woman 
scarcely lived; she was watching her prey. 

The handle of the door turned. Courtenay leaped 
up instantly. 

“Mr. Van Alyn,” announced the butler, and Mal- 
colm, bright, boyish, in the best of spirits, and ting- 
ling with cold from the February afternoon, came 
vigorously in. Perhaps his face clouded the barest 
trifle when he saw his fiancee’s companion; but Mal- 
colm was not of a jealous nature, and, if the truth 
must be told, he had become a shade careless of Joan 
Howard’s relations with others. He would not for a 
moment have acknowledged that this was because he 
did not care for her any longer. It was only because — 
well, because she seemed to enjoy varied society so 
thoroughly. If Malcolm turned a bit hypocritical here 
who will blame him? Not I. He was a long-suffer- 
ing, charitable, and patient lover at best, and if now 
he was not so madly in love as he had been during the 
first mad days, why it was infinitely better for his 
peace of mind. 

As he entered Joan rose. She wished, figuratively 
306 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 


speaking, to shake herself out. Going forward with 
a bright smile, she occupied the young fellow long 
enough to enable Courtenay to recover himself. 
Robert was grateful for this foresight, but even when 
Malcolm, with a careless “How are you, Court?” 
passed him, and sat down beyond the table, Cour- 
tenay was hardly able to return a coherent greeting; 
and it required an enormous amount of self-control to 
enable him to stay in the room at all. Joan was 
somewhat surprised to find that he did not go at once, 
but for fifteen minutes he forced himself to sit there, 
and even, after a moment or two, joined in the con- 
versation with a semblance of ease. 

“Do you know, I am quite excited over the thought 
of Monday night?” said Joan, smilingly. 

“What is Monday night?” inquired Courtenay. 

“That’s very kind of you, Court. You see on 
Monday night we are going merely as a family for the 
music. Mother, Father, Court, and I are to be along. 
However, our box is next to yours, so we shall still 
be able to speak occasionally.” 

“Mr. and Mrs. Kent and Edith are to be with us,” 
responded Joan. “Families seem to cling to one 
another on opening nights. Melba in ‘Traviata, ’ you 
know, Mr. Courtenay.” 

“Yes; I believe I remember now.” 

“I am so glad that both of you are going. ” 

“My mother was — ” Malcolm hesitated, “not 
quite sure how it would look. On account of — of May, 
you know. But she likes the music.” 

“And people in the West do not mind crape, but 
cannot bear losing their amusements.” Strangely 

3°7 


A SOCIAL LION 


enough, from Courtenay’s lips this did not sound 
brutal. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward till 
Joan spoke again: 

“It will be the first opera that I have seen.” 

“Is that possible!’’ cried Malcolm. 

“You forget my convent education. Hitherto my 
music has been confined to masses, hymns, and aves. ’’ 

“All vastly preferable to ‘Traviata,’ ’’ replied 
Courtenay. “I cannot think of a more dismal opera 
for a first night. However, Miss Howard, there is 
one grace about it for you. Melba’s costumes are 
extremely costly and rather beautiful — that is, if she 
is still wearing those of last year.’’ 

“Trust Court for knowing about the clothes,” said 
Malcolm, laughing. “Most women don’t know half so 
much about their own things as he.” 

Courtenay laughed also, but looked pleased. It 
was his weakest point to be thought an authority on 
dress, and in very truth his taste in that direction 
was excellent. Yet a more uneffeminate man never 
lived. Joan looked at him curiously when Malcolm 
had spoken, but for her own dress she had not much 
to fear. 

A moment or two more, and Courtenay at last had 
risen. “I must be going, Miss Howard. I have 
stayed an unpardonable while. Au revoir until 
Monday.” 

The heavy portiere of the drawing-room dropped 
behind him; the great outside door had shut. Cour- 
tenay was gone, and Joan was left with Malcolm and 
that resolve of hers which had grown suddenly to 
gigantic strength. She rose rather nervously and 
308 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 


rang for Carson. Malcolm, quite at home with her, 
stood in front of a table examining a procession of 
Japanese ivory animals of minute proportion. 

“Tea, Carson,” said the girl, and, in spite of her, 
her voice was strange. Carson disappeared. 

“Going to Bournique’s this evening?” inquired the 
young fellow, looking up. 

She started out of her plans. “Bournique’s? 
Yes — no — I can’t tell. Why do you ask? Surely you 
are not going?” 

“Why not?” he inquired, with a little irritation. 
“They are exclusive things. One can’t mope at home 
forever.” 

Joan wished to quarrel with him. It was the easiest 
thing that could happen for her. “It seems to me 
that it shows wonderfully little respect for your sister’s 
memory. ” 

“Nonsense, Joan. Would Marie have acted differ- 
ently had it been I? A thousand people die every day 
in the world. It is not an unusual thing. ” 

“Unusual? Oh, no. Perhaps it is only because I 
have no sister that I labor under the delusion that the 
thought of the loss of one would be too painful for 
me to care to dance through every night for at least 
six weeks after her death. I perceive that here it is 
not the custom to remember those that have gone 
before. ” 

“Really, as to that — ” began Malcolm, angrily, 
when Carson came in with the tea. 

“Will you have cream or lemon?” inquired the 
girl, coldly. 

“Lemon and cognac.” 

3°9 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Carson! you have forgotten the cognac. You 
will pardon his stupidity. He doubtless thought, as I 
did, that it was possible for boys of your age to take 
one beverage at least without the aid of an intoxi- 
cant. ” 

“Joan, Joan! Come! Don’t be angry with me. I 
fancied the cognac was there. My mother usually 
serves it so. It doesn’t make any difference to me. 
Rather, I should prefer tea clear, since you do not 
approve of the other. ** 

Joan shrugged her shoulders. “We will wait for 
the cognac,’’ she answered, icily. 

Malcolm’s face darkened, but he restrained him- 
self from saying anything more as he turned abruptly 
and walked to the other end of the room. Joan, 
thoroughly unhappy, sat stiffly at the tea-table. She 
could not argue herself into anger at Malcolm. 

Carson entered with the decanter. Miss Howard 
received it and dismissed him. Staring painfully 
at the back of Malcolm’s coat, she poured out 
half a cupful of the biting liquor, adding just enough 
tea to warm it nauseously, then dropping sugar and 
two slices of lemon into the mixture. Again she 
looked up at the man. He did not turn. 

“Your tea is ready. Will you come and take it, 
please?’’ 

Courtesy forbade his refusing the invitation. He 
came forward and accepted the cup. Before he 
raised it to his lips the fumes of the heated brandy 
reached him. Bracing himself invisibly, he took the 
whole of the concoction in three swallows without any 


310 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 


apparent effort. Then he laid the cup upon the table. 
“Thank you,” he said, pleasantly. 

Joan looked at the empty Sevres in astonishment 
and anger. She herself was trying to appear as 
though she enjoyed the tea-flavored, tepid lemonade 
which it is nowadays considered proper to regard as 
preferable to the hot, cream-whitened, and comfort- 
able drink of our forefathers. And since a smile and 
an expression of unobtrusive delight is necessary to 
the bibatory process, Joan at the present moment 
found it nearly an impossibility to maintain her equi- 
librium of manner at all. Besides this, she knew that 
now she must nerve herself to a difficult and disagree- 
able task. 

Van Alyn was passing an unusually unhappy hour. 
Rarely had he known Miss Howard so consistently 
disagreeable. He did not feel called upon to prolong 
his visit. Before she had finished her tea, he rose, 
yawning perceptibly. 

“Well, Joan, I fancy that my presence here is 
rather a bore to both of us. I evidently did not 
arrive at a propitious moment. No doubt Courtenay 
was more entertaining. My things are outside — 
good — ” 

“No, no, Malcolm. Sit down, please. I — I want 
to say something to you at once. It will not be very 
long. Then — you may go.” 

Malcolm looked resigned and sat down again. 
Joan made a last effort with her tea, but had to put 
the cup back before it reached her lips, for she would 
not let him see her hand tremble. Young Van Alyn 
waited till Joan could take breath to begin. He had 
3 11 


A SOCIAL LION 


not asuspicion of what she was about to say. Finally, 
with her head bent over the table, she began to speak, 
slowly. She could not lift her eyes, but kept them 
so fixed that to the day of her death she could 
remember the exact pattern of the arabesques that 
ran over the cups. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, Malcolm, on one 
subject, and I have come to a conclusion concerning 
it. It is — oh, this is awfully hard for me to say, Mal- 
colm — it’s about our engagement. ’’ The young fel- 
low leaned forward in his chair with a changed 
expression. “I have been watching both you and 
myself for a week now. I have doubted my ability to 
love you as I should, and certainly your feeling for 
me is different from what it was. I honestly do not 
think that we can either of us realize just what mar- 
riage would mean. I know that my uncle wishes our 
marriage, that your family expect it, and still I be- 
lieve, from the bottom of my heart, Malcolm, that 
we had better break it off before it is too late, than 
for both of us to be unhappy forever after.” She 
rose very quietly and drew the solitaire from her 
finger. “Here is the ring, and with it your freedom, 
Mai. I only hope that this may make us firmer 
friends, instead of our being lax lovers. I am very 
fond of you in that way — I only don’t love you as a 
wife. Will you understand — and — try — to forgive — 
me?” 

It took Malcolm two or three minutes to find him- 
self after she stopped speaking. He had been abso- 
lutely astonished — more, stunned. Yet now he took the 
ring from her, and kept her hand in his own for a minute. 

312 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 


“Have I treated you unkindly, Joan?” he asked. 

“Never! Oh, no, Malcolm! Please do not think 
that. You have always been very, very kind; much 
more forbearing than I have deserved. But isn’t 
there some truth in what I have said, Malcolm? Isn’t 
it true that you feel as I have suggested?” 

“N — no, Joan. Indeed no. I — there is nothing 
more to be said, however. I could not hold to a bond 
that you wish broken. I am sorry. I had never for 
a moment expected it. Must we — explain, to every- 
body?” 

“Oh, no. Only to a few. The rest will find out, 
gradually enough.” 

“Good-by, then. Good-by. Believe me, Joan, 
I’m sorry.” 

He was gone, and Joan was left alone now with her 
new freedom, and a sudden new anxiety greater than 
anything she had known before. Malcolm’s day was 
over with her, and a pleasant day it had been — inno- 
cently frank, and singularly devoid of the usual senti- 
mental demonstration which is generally supposed to 
belong to that sort of thing. Joan had never felt 
very warmly toward him, for their natures were 
utterly different. Perhaps it really would have been 
an unhappy marriage. However that was, it was cer- 
tainly a great sigh that the girl gave as she rose and 
went heavily up to her own room. The evening’s 
confession to her father she dreaded unspeakably. 
But at least it need not be made until after dinner. 
Half an hour later she was crying over a neatly tied 
little package which was filled with pretty trinkets, 
and was addressed to young Van Alyn. Meanwhile 
3 I 3 


A SOCIAL LION 


that youth was wandering aimlessly homeward. The 
first twenty-four hours after you have been jilted by 
a girl whom you have once cared enough for to ask in 
marriage are not the pleasantest in life. Malcolm 
made a two-mile walk out of one usually five blocks 
long, not because he wanted to think, but because he 
felt that he must keep moving. He met no one whom 
he knew, and gradually drifted into the bluest of 
reveries, from which he was startled by a thought 
which had come to him as Niagara might appear to 
a man dying of thirst. Its contemplation was abso- 
lutely satisfying, but itself was overpoweringly im- 
possible. He went swiftly homeward trying to 
distance his sudden, hopeless hope. 

He found his mother alone in the library. Mal- 
colm had always been fond of this gentle lady, but 
now he remembered <how little attention he had paid 
her during the last weeks. It struck him as some- 
thing strange and new to see how old she looked. 

“Why, mother! are you ill?” 

Mrs. Van Alyn read his thoughts. “No, dear. I 
am no worse than usual. You do not realize how 
hard the last few weeks have been to me. Marie — 
you know, and then — other things.” 

Malcolm went over and stood before her, regard- 
ing her tenderly. “What other things?” he said. 

She shook her head and smiled a little. “Nothing. 
But you, Malcolm. You have something to tell me, 
I think. ” 

His cheeks flushed suddenly. “I have a hard 
headache,” he said. And indeed it was true; the 
cognac was taking effect. 


3H 


THE REMOVING OF AN OBSTACLE 


“Is that all?” 

“J — Miss Howard has given me back her engage- 
ment ring. ” 

Mrs. Van Alyn rose quickly. “What — what do you 
mean?” 

“Our engagement is broken.” 

“Oh! Malcolm!” 

She said no more than this to him, but those two 
words may be pronounced with an infinite variety of 
expression. I should get into serious difficulty should 
I attempt to describe just how they sounded from her 
lips; but this much must be admitted — disappoint- 
ment and sorrow were not large factors in their intri- 
cate composition. 


3*5 


CHAPTER XX 


MONDAY EVENING 

Never perhaps has the Auditorium held a more bril- 
liant audience than the one which assembled there on 
this Monday evening. Every seat in the body of the 
house was occupied when the curtain rose upon the 
first , gay scene of “La Traviata. ” The place looked 
like the show-rooms of some famous French milliner 
just after the departure of a noted purchaser. And 
the glowing toilets of the women were thrown into 
effective relief by the sober background of black suits 
and white shirts of the men who were scattered thickly 
through the audience. The boxes were not filled 
early, but nearly half of them were occupied by the 
time that Violetta made her entrance in the wonder- 
ful ball dress of] pale pink satin, with its heavy em- 
broidery of gold. 

Joan and Herbert Stagmar arrived before their 
guests, but they were closely followed by Mr. and 
Mrs. Kent and Edith. Five minutes later came Mr. 
and Mrs. Van Alyn, with Eleanor Felton, to the box 
next to them on the left. The two young ladies, Joan 
and Edith, were not good foils for each other. 
Neither one could show to any advantage where the 
fiery hair and gray eyes were in close juxtaposition to 
the pale yellow locks and eyes of icy blue. Joan 
316 


MONDAY EVENING 


wore the dress in which she had made her d£but, and 
it had passed through too many balls and receptions 
to be fresh. Nevertheless, it was the most becoming 
evening dress she had ever worn, and she had clung 
to it so assiduously that society had come to take it 
for granted and expect her in it. And wonderfully 
well she had looked at home in it, where its every fold 
had found its place upon her slender and graceful 
figure. Her ornaments were pearls, and she wore 
them in numbers too great for a young girl. There 
was not a spot of color anywhere about her dress, and 
unusually little in her lips. It was strange to see the 
stir which her quiet, almost languorous entrance cre- 
ated in the audience. She sank into her seat under 
the glances leveled from a hundred lorgnettes. She 
felt that she was an entire success, and her manner 
grew accordingly more indifferent. 

When Edith Kent came in she was in singularly 
good spirits. She had looked forward with extraor- 
dinary pleasure to this first night of the opera, and she 
betrayed it now. She was utterly unlike her usual 
self, being lively, gay, and a little affected. She 
showed also a marked contrast to Miss Howard in the 
careful freshness of her costume. She was in a cloudy 
dress of pale rose satin shimmering faintly through a 
shower of silver gauze. A spider of small diamonds 
on one shoulder, and a great bouquet of daybreak 
carnations, completed her ensemble effectively. She 
appeared suddenly as the debutante, Joan as the 
many-wintered society girl. Mrs. Kent was singularly 
impressive in black velvet, lace, and diamonds, which, 
to her high indignation, made her look a trifle older 
3 X 7 


A SOCIAL LION 


than she was. When Chatsworth, the third gentle- 
man of the party, entered the box, he glanced at the 
little group of ladies with great approval and artistic 
appreciation. 

The short first act was drawing to a close. Joan 
Howard had been guilty of turning three times to look 
into the Van Alyn box to see whether Courtenay had 
yet arrived. She became impatient. The applause 
which greeted the duet between Melba and Campanari 
irritated her unaccountably. Eleanor Felton was 
watching her with cynical amusement, Mrs. Van Alyn 
with covert curiosity. Neither of them liked Joan, 
and Joan knew this, and was therefore comfortless in 
their presence. Little Doctor Kent, who was suffer- 
ing agonies from tight boots, admired Miss Howard, 
but thought her dress soiled. Mrs. Kent had been 
over-cordial, Edith cold, and Bromler Van Alyn had, 
to tell the truth, not noticed her at all. He was too 
bored to look around much, and was, besides, calcu- 
lating interest. Thus Joan’s early evening was pass- 
ing badly. 

The curtain dropped on the first act, and as it 
lifted again to reveal the triumphant Violetta, the 
applause was augmented from the foyer behind the 
boxes by the clapping of two pairs of masculine hands. 
Joan was roused from some disagreeable thoughts by 
the sound of Edith’s voice: 

“Oh! you are very late, Malcolm. Good evening, 
Mr. Courtenay. We had begun to think that both of 
you were lost for the evening.” 

Joan did not look around. She was bowing pleas- 


318 


MONDAY EVENING 


antly to an imaginary friend in the audience. Her 
father’s voice came to her then: 

“Glad to see you, Robert. Come in, Malcolm. 
Sit down and entertain these young ladies while the 
doctor and I speak to Mrs. Van Alyn. ” 

Malcolm entered the box, looked uneasily toward 
Joan, and then sat down by Edith. Courtenay hesi- 
tated before he went to Miss Howard, but as Mrs. 
Kent, still in pursuit of her fad, was eagerly convers- 
ing with the artist, there was nothing else to be done. 

Young Van Alyn’s face was not flushed, but 
neither his hands nor his nerves were steady. He 
was angry to perceive how carefully Courtenay 
watched him, angrier still that he knew it to be neces- 
sary, since he was not quite positive what he was say- 
ing. He regretted a very recent “little dinner’’ in 
Courtenay’s rooms heartily now. 

As for Courtenay, he was amused with his brother- 
in-law. Many a time had he helped Malcolm through 
a dilemma, but never had he seen him in a more try- 
ing situation. Robert himself was well toned up for 
the rest of the night. He had been roused by wine 
sufficiently to appreciate Joan’s long-lashed looks at 
I him, and had the daring to make one or two risque 
remarks to her, which she received with nervous dis- 
satisfaction. 

The intermission was over. The two young men, 
returning to their places, stopped outside for a mo- 
ment to smile at one another significantly. Malcolm 
laid his hand heavily on the shoulder of the other: 

“By f Bob, she’s glorious, isn’t she?” 

“Rather catty, but overpowering to a degree.” 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Pshaw! I dofi’t mean I was referring to — to 

Edith.” 

Courtenay burst into a mocking laugh. “You have 
a talent for the on and off. How many do you usually 
keep in the running? Is Clairette to be reduced to 
despair already?” 

“Shut up. Bob! Don’t mention the creature. My 
eyes are all right, are they?” And with this Malcolm, 
like a dutiful son, went in to greet his mother affec- 
tionately. 

The next act was a trifle stupid except for the 
interest in Violetta's hat. During the whole of it 
Courtenay talked to Eleanor Felton, whose wit 
amused him mightily. Malcolm sat in a back corner 
of the box, moodily studying Miss Kent’s profile, and 
wishing that he had not agreed to go to the club that 
night. Joan was intensely bored. If this were opera, 
it was certainly not to her taste. Besides that, she 
was chagrined to feel that Edith was highly astonished 
at Malcolm’s curt good evening to her, and she medi- 
tated on the possibility of removing a glove on some 
pretext, that the absence of her solitaire might be 
noted. Moreover she was, strangely enough, furi- 
ously jealous of Edith, wretched about Malcolm, dis- 
pleased with herself, but firmly determined to 
accomplish something with Courtenay before the 
evening’s end. He was not yet aware of her broken 
engagement. The news of that might perhaps startle 
him into some admission, but it was only a chance. 
At least he seemed to her to be in a propitious mood. 
In reality it was quite the contrary. 

The act ended, and the second intermission began. 

320 


MONDAY EVENING 


Courtenay came to the side of the box, and leaning 
upon the rail, began talking to Mrs. Kent, who 
received his attention complacently. Joan’s hands 
shook with disappointment as she replied sweetly to 
Bromler Van Alyn’s forced remarks. Edith and Mal- 
colm were again together, and Robert appeared to 
have settled down comfortably to a twenty-minute 
anecdote of Mrs. J. Bartwick’s. With one ear, how- 
ever, and his whole mind, Courtenay was devoting 
himself to the conversation of his brother-in-law and 
Miss Kent. It gave him much to think of. 

“Joan is unusually pale to-night, Malcolm.” 

“Yes— perhaps.” 

“Well, then, do you know, I actually dressed just 
as I had fancied myself in my dream.” 

Courtenay bowed absently, and strained his ears to 
catch Edith’s next remark. 

“It is rather too bad of you, Mai, to leave her to 
the mercies of her father-in-law to be, who is plainly 
anxious to get back to his meditations.” 

“I was a little nervous about directing my coach- 
man to this street, for I most certainly had heard one 
or two gentlemen speak of it vulgarly, but I was quite 
ignorant of what it was. Even when I said ‘Gray 
Street’ to my coachman, I imagined he looked a trifle 
strange. ” 

Courtenay smiled covertly to himself, and mur- 
mured, “Surely not!” 

“Edith, I — I don’t know — perhaps I am not the 
one to tell you — nevertheless, Joan Howard will never 
be my father’s daughter-in-law.” 

“Oh!” said Edith, softly, and Robert longed to 
321 


A SOCIAL LION 


see her face. He, too, had said “Oh!” in a man’s t 
language when Malcolm made his embarrassed an- ( 
nouncement. But Mrs. Kent seemed to be arriving 
somewhere near to the point of her narrative. 

“We drove through an extremely disagreeable 
locality, indeed. I pulled the curtains over the coupe 
windows. ” 

Courtenay had lost something of the other conver- 
sation. When he returned to it Malcolm was speak- 
ing. “No, it really is broken. Otherwise I should 
never have mentioned it. It seems a long time 
since — ” 

“Do you regret it, then?” Edith asked too quickly. 

“Have you forgotten our conversation the day — I — 
came to you?” 

“No, Malcolm. No; I shall never forget.” 

“But when we reached Gray Street we found it 
delightfully quiet. I was quite pleased. It was poor, 
of course, but really almost pleasant. My footmen 
got down and asked if I wished to stop anywhere. I 
said no, but for them to driv A e slowly past one hun- 
dred and forty-three.” 

“‘Never,’ Edith?” 

Courtenay glanced quickly around to get his glass 
from the chair behind. Could it be possible that Mal- 
colm’s hand lay upon Edith Kent’s white glove? 

Again did graceless Courtenay smile as he asked 
of Mrs. Kent, “And did you see the ‘one whom you 
knew and did not know,’ as you drove by?” 

A puzzled look came over Mrs. Kent’s face when 
she, as she usually did, admitted the pointlessness of 
her tale. “Oh, no. I am positive that there was no 
3 22 


MONDAY EVENING 


3 truth in that. It must have been a mistake. But I 
' did see some one there.” 

“Oh! You really did then. Who was it?” 

“Oh, you must not think of the dream now, indeed 
e you must not. It was dear Doctor Snippington. He 
j was down there on an errand of charity, of course.” 

Robert’s face betrayed a mixture of interest, actual 
' astonishment, and amusement as he replied with glit- 
■ tering eyes: “Oh, certainly. And what did you do 
1 then, Mrs. Kent?” 

“I asked him if I might not drive him back with 
me. The poor fellow was on foot.” 

“And did he go?” 

“Yes; I finally persuaded him. He seemed to 
prefer walking at first. He delights in denying him- 
self every pleasure! Dear man!” 

“Do you know what Gray Street is, Mrs. Kent?” 

Mrs. Kent looked at him, trying hard to read his 
impenetrable expression. Then she answered in em- 
barrassed haste, “Oh, certainly. Are not those the 
Loring girls, opposite?” 

“May I call to-morrow, Edith?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, Malcolm. Perhaps, if you 
care to.” 

j “Expect me at three. You will be alone?” 

And Edith did not answer, but nodded quietly as 
the curtain rose on the third act. 

During the card-scene Courtenay did not look at 
the stage after his moment of inspection of Violetta’s 
gown. Immediately after her entrance he settled 
back with his face to the audience to wrestle with a 
few disturbing thoughts of his own. His eyes strayed 

323 


A SOCIAL LION 


often to Joan Howard’s drooping face. Why had she 
acted as she had? What had she done? What but 
thrown Robert Courtenay, the self-assured, into such 
a state of irritation, perplexity, debate, indecision, 
and uneasiness that for the first time in his entire life 
he was thoroughly at outs with himself. She had 
broken her engagement with Van Alyn — why? A 
flicker of vanity as well as annoyance showed in his 
eyes as he asked that question. He had not studied 
her character profoundly — Courtenay thought too 
little of any woman for that — but he believed her 
capable of loving only her master. Her master? Who 
was that? Answer, thou Alter Ego ! But Courtenay’s 
Alter Ego refused to answer. It was afraid. Robert 
Courtenay was a widower, and free. A widower. He 
raised his slender white hand to the hair which was 
no longer coal black, and frowned to himself. Joan 
Howard — how beautiful she was. Bah! Beauty as 
opposed to freedom, such a freedom as his? No; 
impossible to sacrifice too much. Yet once he had 
forgotten himself before her. That was dangerous. 
What was it he had said? “God! I love you!’’ Ho! 
melodramatic enough. Had her head been turned by 
that five minutes? If so, it must be twisted back 
again. No, no. Courtenay’s animation was dying 
now. Joan Howard must not be allowed to regard 
him as she evidently did. Could she fascinate him 
into marrying her? Courtenay came near laughing 
aloud. “I must stop this,” he said; “I can manage 
it and, more, I will. ” 

Courtenay, have you stopped yet to ask if — you 
love Helen’s daughter? 


3 2 4 


MONDAY EVENING 


The third act was ended. The moment that the 
after-applause had died away Courtenay crossed into 
the next box again and seated himself beside and a 
little behind Joan Howard. 

Joan was clapping with apparent enthusiasm as 
Melba and Campanari reappeared. She payed not 
the slightest attention to the man whom she knew 
perfectly well was close to her. But her heart was 
beating triumphantly at that knowledge. 

“It seems to come up to your anticipations, Miss 
Howard. ” 

She looked around with an atom of surprise in her 
face. “It is truly charming, ” she replied, with hid- 
den bitterness. 

“My presence seems to annoy you, Joan.” 

Miss Howard stared at him haughtily. “To my 
acquaintances, Mr. Courtenay, I am Miss Howard.” 

“Certainly — Joan,” he responded, easily. 

At this she looked at him undecidedly. Both of 
them were beginning to understand that he could 
always ride over her when he chose to use a little per- 
sistence. This time was no exception to the rule. 
Joan saw his face and laughed, unguardedly. Cour- 
tenay also laughed, and in an unbeautiful manner, as 
Joan Howard knew. It was well for Courtenay’s 
secret cause and ill for his daughter’s happiness that 
Stagmar had a moment before left the box to pay a 
call upstairs. Robert, having Joan Howard now 
pliable and under his influence, proceeded to carry out 
his plan. His manner was always indifferent, his 
voice even, nonchalant, unpleasant. 


325 


A SOCIAL LION 


“I have only just heard something which is no 
longer news, I imagine, Miss Howard.” 

Joan twisted a little nervously. “What’s that?” 

“So coyly at a loss to guess? Save us from the 
vagaries of a pretty woman! Did my ardent and 
youthful brother-in-law refuse to assume the conjugal 
responsibility of your eyes and money, after all?” 

Joan gave him one quick glance, and then turned 
uneasily away for a moment. Even she would not 
much longer endure the continued insult hidden in the 
tones of the man for whose honest love she would 
have dared the world. But how make others join in 
a conversation where he might choose to continue in 
the same manner toward her? The girl did him war- 
ranted injustice now. And she could not order him 
away. She had not force enough, in his presence, for 
that. While these thoughts sped through her mind, 
Courtenay read them. This was a hard task for him. 
Inwardly he burned with shame; outwardly he gave 
no sign. 

“Why should you speak to me in that way? What 
right have you? I suppose that you were referring to 
my broken engagement to Malcolm.” 

“Precisely. You are really becoming astute. 
Um — may I ask if you have done me the honor to 
make me responsible for the dear boy’s desperate 
unhappiness?” Here Courtenay glanced laughingly 
over his shoulder to young Van Alyn, whose face was 
eagerly lighted by the words he was speaking to 
Edith Kent. 

Joan shook with helpless anger and mortification. 

“What — what do you mean?” she faltered. 

326 


MONDAY EVENING 


He lowered his handsome head over her as he 
answered, in a low, mocking tone, at the same time 
restraining himself from bending before her in earnest 
contrition, “Was it, I mean, for love of me that you 
threw over Van Alyn?” 

The girl started up. “Robert Courtenay! How — ” 

“Hush! Don’t make a scene. It’s true, isn’t it?” 

She did not answer, but sat looking at him dazedly. 

“Well, listen, then. If it was on my account, you 
shall not be disappointed. Here I make you a formal 
proposal for your hand. Will you marry me, a six- 
weeks’ widower? Must I say the usual extravagant 
things? Of course, I love you in quite the unusual 
way. Let us dispense with the rest of the nonsense. 

. The answer, I have no doubt, is ‘yes’?’’ 

Choking away a hysterical sob, Joan looked at him 
in a fury. “I hate you! I despise you from the bot- 
tom of my heart! So long as I live I hope never to 
see you again. When you are sober I expect a writ- 
ten apology. Go — away!’’ 

Her last words showed her so upon the verge of 
tears that Courtenay rose in very pity. At the same 
moment the first notes of the dismal last act sounded 
from the orchestra. The man who had for the past 
ten minutes been playing so despicable a part went 
through the hall, and with a bare excuse and good 
night to his hostess hurried down the marble stairs and 
out into the raw, drizzling night. He hated himself 
just now, did the doughty Courtenay, and as he 
mopped his brow he groaned in an agony: “Well — it’s 
done. I’m free, and she has escaped. But not for 
anything in the universe would I do a thing like that 

327 


A SOCIAL LION 


again! Good God! I didn’t know what it was going 
to be. Now, I’ve lost her, even as an acquaintance, 
forever!” 

Joan Howard heard and saw nothing of the last 
act. Through it all the heavy, hot tears rolled slowly 
down her cheeks, and her hands were clasped so 
tightly together that they pained her afterward. Now 
she felt nothing. She was stunned. 

The opera was over. The brilliant audience rose 
and yawned, covertly, behind its ermine wraps and 
black coats. Not one of the* occupants of our two 
boxes felt sufficient animation to go into the Palm 
Garden for the usual supper. As they went down the 
little iron steps that led directly down into the lower 
foyer of the Auditorium, Joan furtively examined Edith 
Kent’s face at every turn, for she was afraid lest 
some part of that horrible ten minutes might have 
been noted by the elder girl. She could, how- 
ever, make nothing out of Edith’s strangely flushed 
cheeks and nervous manner, for Joan had been too 
much occupied with her own thoughts during the 
opera to have taken to heart the drama that had been 
enacted behind her throughout the evening. 

In the foyer Stagmar offered his arm to Mrs. Kent, 
and as they went through the hotel out to the car- 
riages, he said to her, after no one knew how hard a 
struggle: “My dear Mrs. Kent, let me congratulate 
you for your daughter. The old relations between 
her and Malcolm have, I think, been reestablished 
to-night. Believe me, I feel my niece’s action 
in the matter to have been right. She said to 
me that she felt it her duty, and I agreed with her. 

328 


MONDAY EVENING 


It has, then, been only a temporary break between 
the two, who really belong to each other— perhaps to 
show them how much they are in love after all.” 

Mrs. Kent looked at him in amazement. She has 
since declared that never in her life did she admire 
man or woman more for courage than she did Herbert 
Stagmar that night. For in some — a very few — ways, 
Mrs. James Bartwick was no fool. 


329 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 

One evening, about the middle of the first week of 
opera, Stagmar went from his solitary dinner-table 
straight outside to a footmanless brougham. Ulster, 
cap, and gloveless hands announced his plebeianism 
for the night. Joan was fortunately at an opera din- 
ner, and her father at liberty to go where he liked, 
free from any thought of her loneliness. Perkins, 
on the box, gave no sign when he heard the destina- 
tion of their drive, but after the master was inside and 
they had started away, he chuckled a little, inwardly, 
did Perkins the astute. For gentlemen’s drivers 
come to know some places by reputation quite as well 
as the masters. This particular domicile was fre- 
quented by the greatest and best — those who dressed 
best, Perkins meant. But, though Mr. Robert Cour- 
tenay and Mr. Stillwell Drew were said to have come 
to blows in its select little hallway, still Perkins, as 
a loyal and devoted attendant, vowed that he would 
have put up all his ready money on the master, if the 
master had only the foresight to have worn his top 
coat, tall hat, and evening suit to-night instead of the 
old, threadbare rambling rig. 

“Ladies,” had Perkins once observed, in a confi- 
dential mood, to George, his whilom assistant, “ladies 
330 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


has eyes for does. Now, look at Miss Howard. It’s 
off with young Van Alyn, to my thinkin’ all on 
account o’ his visitin’ her afternoons in his business 
suit. An’ in my position I have opportunities of 
noticin’. ” 

But Herbert Stagmar was not thinking of his 
apparel. He was going to see his wife. He sat in 
the brougham, his head on one hand, staring vacantly 
out of the window, and failing to note many acquaint- 
ances whom he had not known in those enthusiastic, 
far-off days of which he dreamed. 

Stagmar alighted heavily at the door of the apart- 
ment building. Perkins watched him with furtive 
curiosity and marveled at his reluctance. Why was 
he not in eager haste? But Perkins bowed blankly 
and drove away when his employer informed him that 
) he should walk home later. It was not a cold night, 
and he should not have minded waiting. 

Stagmar ascended the flights of stairs slowly. It 
was but the fourth of these visits that he had made, 
but he dreaded them, as things monotonously tragic. 
Fifine opened the door, and he drew back a little at 
the blaze of light which met him. The room glared 
with lamps, and he had come up from cool darkness. 
Helen was dressing, he was told, and would be out in 
a moment. He nodded and turned wearily from the 
gaudily tricked out maid. When Fifine disappeared 
into another room the sound of an exclamation came 
from within it. In another moment the dancer stood 
before her husband. 

She seemed to the dazed, half-sick man before her 
like some strange, feverish vision. She was dressed 
33 1 


A SOCIAL LION 


in a long-trained evening gown of crimson satin, 
which, in an inexplicable manner seemed to harmonize 
with the red of her carelessly arranged hair. Here 
and there on the dress one caught a shimmer of white. 
Her wonderful neck blazed with diamonds — whether 
false or real mattered not. And over the whole cos- 
tume, as if with a wish to conceal the startling colors, 
was thrown a shawl of fine black lace. 

Her husband, as he turned toward her, examined 
her curiously. He could remember the time when it 
had been her delight to pose in some such array for 
the elder Chatsworth, who had pronounced her more 
beautiful than archangel or arch-temptress, while he, 
Stagmar, and Jim Kent had looked on contentedly. 
She came forward, still slowly, reading in his face the 
mixture of admiration, pity, and disgust which he so 
strongly felt. Then she spoke. 

“Why did you come at night — and this evening of 
them all? I did not want you ever to see me so!” 

“Then why are you so?” coldly. 

“‘My sins as scarlet are,’ ” she responded, half 
sadly, half lightly. “It is my nature. Will you sit 
down?” 

“Not for long. I merely came, as usual, to see 
that you wanted for nothing, and that you were gain- 
ing in strength. Doubtless you are awaiting com- 
pany more welcome than I.” 

She watched him steadily as he sat down, then she 
drew another chair up and seated herself, still without 
speaking. Her husband was silent also, for he per- 
ceived that she had something which she was nerving 
herself to say. He dreaded it, but waited. 

332 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


Im - 

“Listen, Herbert. I am expecting people to- 
j night — yes, a great many, both men and women. 
I have asked them all to come. They will laugh 
and rejoice with me, and drink to my successful 
convalescence and to my approaching — return to the 
stage. ” 

Stagmar sprang to his feet. “Helen — explain.” 

“There is nothing to explain. I have danced for 
many years, from choice. I shall dance for many 
more now, from necessity. I know that you dislike 
me — more, cannot endure me. Well, then, it kills 
me to accept support from you. I will be indepen- 
dent, Herbert. And Jim Kent has pronounced me 
well.” 

“Kills you to accept support from me — your hus- 
band? Why?” 

“My husband! Ah, if you were my husband — ” 

“And am I not?” 

“No, Herbert, except in name. Names are noth- 
ing. I am as a widow. You — you are ashamed of 
me. If you were not, I should be acknowledged 
before your world.” 

This speech of hers was not impassioned. It had 
| not even reproach in it. As she spoke Stagmar had 
looked at her with the dawn of a new expression. 
Helen had grown older. Then the writer’s throbbing 
head sank over into his hands. “Let me think,” he 
muttered. 

She stood before him, her hands clasped, her eyes 
pitifully wistful, her face emotionless. There came a 
sharp ring at the bell. Fifine was heard coming to 
answer it. 


333 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Quick! Herbert! You must go!” She ran over 
to the man, who had not moved. 

“Go? Why?” 

“There is some one coming. I do not want you to 
be found here.” 

He smiled scornfully. “Are they all so jealous?” 

“They jealous! Oh, it is for you, Herbert. Can’t 
you understand? I would not have you thought to be 
a man like them. There is another door that leads 
into the passage. Come with me.” 

He followed her silently through two or three 
rooms until she let him out close to the stairs, 
through a little, inconspicuous door in the side of an 
ante-room. Before he departed he turned to her. 

“I shall come back to-night when you are alone. 
I must talk with you about this thing.” 

Then he was gone, into the night, and La Caralita, 
her evening of revelry spoiled for her, went back to 
receive her caller. As she entered the little parlor 
Snippington stood by the table, the glow from a red 
shade lighting up his pallid countenance. He hurried 
toward her with an air of gallantry. 

“How beautiful! how beautiful you are, mea 
Helena!” he said, rolling his weak eyes at her. 

She threw herself into a chair, looking up and 
laughing at him forcedly. “Ah, if I believed that 
you never said such things to any one else!” she said. 

“To whom would I say them?” he asked, smiling 
consciously. For of all things the divine loved to be 
thought a lady-killer. 

“How should I know?” she returned, somewhat 
too carelessly. 


334 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


“To be sure, indeed. How should you know? You 
are alone to-night?” he continued, looking about at 
all the lights. 

“Just now, yes, except for you. Later a good 
many people will be in. I didn’t know you were com- 
ing. You should have sent word.” This last phrase 
contained a good deal of ironical deference. 

“What people?” he asked, quickly. 

“Oh, I can’t tell you exactly. Some that you 
might know. By the way, I’ve some news for you.” 

“For me? What?” 

“Philip has had an offer to go to Philadelphia to 
be trained in the choir of a new cathedral there. 
They are trying voices everywhere in the country. 
They were satisfied with Philip.” 

“Thank the Lord! Oh, this is good! To have 
him out of the way — when does he go?” 

La Caralita shrugged her shoulders, and looked 
lazily at Snippington’s eager face. “He is not going 
at all. I choose to keep him here with me.” 

For a moment Snippington stared at her insolence, 
then leaped to his feet white with rage. “Fool! 
Idiot! Beast! Devil that you are! Are you going to 
make the little brute stay here to keep my reputation 
forever on the verge of ruin?” 

Helen was now sitting up very straight. She broke 
in upon him without hesitation, but still with some 
indifference of manner: “Beg my pardon, Snip, for 
the words you just spoke, or leave my rooms at once. 
Perhaps you have forgotten how little you can afford 
to vent your fury out on me. Remember that I have 
plenty of power over you.” 

335 


A SOCIAL LION 


Snippington looked at her face and shrank at once. 
There was no imprudent heat in this small, neat little 
man. “I — I beg your pardon, Helen. I assure you 
that I spoke thoughtlessly. Indeed, I crave your for- 
giveness. ” 

She laughed ironically, but nodded to him. There 
was an uneasy silence now for some moments, till 
Snippington ventured to break it, still with hesita- 
tion: “But, Helen — let me ask — what of the boy, 
after all? Can nothing induce you to accept this very 
advantageous offer for him?” 

The dancer threw her head slightly to one side 
and did not answer for a few moments. Then she 
replied lightly: “Well — perhaps. It all depends.” 
Snippington gave an exclamation of satisfaction. 
“I think that I haven’t yet told you that I am* going 
onto the stage again? No? Well, so it is. Of 
course, now, there must be new costumes, and all that 
sort of thing. It will be pretty expensive. You know 
that I was never very careful with money.” 

“Oh, well, Helen — how much shall it be?” Snip- 
pington looked at her and resignedly drew from an 
inner pocket a couple of blank checks. 

“Oh, a thousand will do for now.” 

“A thousand!” he echoed, aghast. “My dear 
woman, do believe me when I say that it is impos- 
sible. You have no idea how small my salary is!” 

“Nonsense, Snip! You have an independent for- 
tune. Where’s that?” 

A groan was more expressive than words. 

“Run through with that? Well, seven and fifty 
then, but I can’t do with less.” 

336 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


With cold hands and a cheerless heart the little 
man sat down to write it off. “I wish it might be 
bills. Checks compromise sometimes.” 

“Oh, never mind. I look highly respectable in a 
bank,” she answered, laughing at his discomfiture, 
and sticking the folded paper into the neck of her 
dress. ‘‘Now, don’t be uneasy. Philip leaves in four 
days. This little sum will be a great help to me.” 

Snippington had no time to answer this when a key 
was heard turning in the lock of the outer door. As 
it opened Helen rose hastily and dragged the small 
clergyman into a room which opened off the parlor, 
a room in which Fifine slept. Next to it was Helen’s 
bedroom, the door of which firmly locked up the 
sleeping Philip. 

“Stay here,” whispered the dancer hurriedly. “I 
didn’t know they would be so early. No one shall 
know that you are here. You can sleep if you like. 
They won’t be very late probably.” 

Then the door was shut upon Snippington, who 
threw himself upon a couch in the dark, to listen to 
the sound of voices, laughter, and hilarity, and then 
to fall into a dreamy doze till the dancer could come 
to let him out. 

The one with the key had been Robert Courtenay. 
Wherever he went Robert seemed to be the privileged 
being among men and women alike. He was fol- 
lowed closely to-night by his rival, Stillwell Drew. 
After him came young Garth, with half a dozen cigar- 
ette smokers, and then some vaudeville people of both 
sexes, whose “turns” for the evening were already 
finished. The party now settled down to amuse 
337 


A SOCIAL LION 


themselves for an hour or so till their ranks could be 
completed by the arrival of a dozen or two artists of 
the “legitimate.” Meantime pipes, cigars, and cigar- 
ettes were produced from the pockets of every man, 
and two or three preliminary bottles were opened by 
one of the gentlemen. From his place of concealment 
Snippington heard with longing the delicate thud of 
the corks as they came from the slender necks of the 
white-sealed bottles. He had a sharp ear for sounds 
like these, poor fellow. And indeed it was a most 
trying situation for a holy man to be shut into a dark, 
small room, whence he dares not emerge, while 
directly outside his hostess chatters gayly with a 
dozen luckier and less saintly men, whose conversation 
he cannot hear, but the clink of whose glasses pene- 
trates most fascinatingly to his thirsty solitude. 

La Caralita, who lacked neither imagination nor 
humor, pictured this little scene out to herself, and 
laughed so heartily at one of Drew’s poorest sallies 
that Courtenay glowered angrily into his glass and 
flung himself over to talk with a small neglected artist 
in a corner. Now the company was increased by the 
entrance of half a dozen ballet girls, who had come 
over from the “Grand,” with their escorts; all giddily 
and tawdrily dressed and covered with long cloaks. 
They were the favorite dancers of a large company, 
and were received with shouts of welcome and mirth. 
One of the party, named Coralie, rushed immedi- 
ately over to Courtenay, who was none too pleased 
with her attentions. Clairette had also come, and 
looked poutingly about for Malcolm Van Alyn. He 
not being there, she was forced to content herself with 
338 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


Garth and a cigarette man, with whom she seemed to 
do very well. La Caralita was the warmest of hos- 
tesses, and to her was given the bulk of homage and 
devotion. Indeed, so assured was her position among 
them all that not a single woman dreamed of jealousy 
of her. The doors of this castle of Bohemia were too 
seldom thrown open to the ordinary dwellers of the 
realm for it to be anything but a privilege to go there. 
For Helen Howard’s name was spoken in reverent 
whispers among her own class as an associate of the 
really great. 

By midnight the small rooms were in an uproar. 
A supper table had been contrived by the men, and 
even now it was covered with a litter of half-empty 
bottles, soiled glasses, heaps of cigar ashes, and 
spilled wine. Seven or eight still sat about it amid 
the remains of unwholesome-looking food, not 
with a desire to eat more, but for the sake of hav- 
ing a resting place for superfluous elbows. Every- 
body in the room was drinking. Coralie sat close 
beside Courtenay, laughing at his disgusted search 
| for a clean glass, she having solved the prob- 
lem by tilting a bottle to her mouth. Garth was 
i relating a spicy anecdote in tenderly loud tones to 
I Clairette, who was engaged in flinging occasional lit- 
tle showers from her champagne glass upon his thin 
hair. This action gave the lawyer, who was looking 
on from a corner with a chianfi flask in either hand, 
a worthy idea. 

“Come! A baptism and christening!” he yelled 
sonorously, rushing over to Garth and dragging him 


339 


A SOCIAL LION 


to the middle of the floor to bow, which he did in a 
pleasantly maudlin fashion. 

These words reached the ears of the recumbent 
Snippington in the adjoining room. What in heaven’s 
name would they do now? He shuddered. Had they 
by any possible chance discovered Philip? Were they 
amusing themselves with him? Would they find out — 
anything? These thoughts rushed through his head 
in a torrent. Now he was relieved, as he could hear 
a part of the next exclamations: 

“Little Tommy Garth ! Good Tommy! W’ats yer 
name, Tommy? Yer middle name? Ho there! Poor 
little fellow! Hasn’t got his hair yet!’’ Then for a 
long three minutes came absolute silence, followed by 
a few mumbled words from the lawyer, a gasp and a 
curse from Garth, and a scream of laughter from the 
entire company. 

The little man had been soaked with a deluge of 
stale wine of every sort from twenty glasses and a 
dozen bottles. He was also exceedingly angry, and 
departed shortly for fresher air, vowing vengeance 
upon the lawyer in a stream of expressive language 
which the entreaties of the deserted Claire failed 
utterly to assuage. This departure was considered 
the crowning success of a highly original joke, and 
the lawyer, taking to himself full credit for the affair, 
felt entitled to a fresh bottle of Pommery Sec, which 
reduced him not long after to somewhat deplorable 
circumstances. 

Stillwell Drew was the only one who was displeased 
with the incident. For Courtenay took advantage of 
the general confusion to usurp a place at the feet of 

340 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


Helen, who had been hitherto occupied by his rival. 
He had rid himself of Coralie, and was now content, 
let Drew scowl as 1 3 would. Robert’s dark head 
rested dreamily on the brilliant folds of La Caralita’s 
train as he half sat, h.df lay upon the floor, leaning 
against her chair. One of her slender hands lay in 
his, his fiery eyes glowed up to hers, and they spoke 
rarely. So they sat, almost alone in that company, 
until their attention was attracted by the next move 
of the guests. 

One of the men had asked for dancing, and Clair- 
ette, who had come over in her theater costume, com- 
plied. Drew seized a guitar, and the rest grouped 
themselves into a chorus about the sweet-toned, thin- 
voiced little instrument. Clairette caught hold of her 
; skirts, there was a shout and clapping, and for the 
next twenty minutes the little figure swayed and 
whirled through a labyrinth of steps in a slow serpen- 
| tine dance of the East. Perhaps it was an imitation 
of Helen Howard, but it was nevertheless well done. 
When she stopped finally, her breath gone, her cheeks 
aflame, her little audience was duly appreciative. But 
I Courtenay was disturbed when Helen rose. She 
breathed very quickly, and her eyes shone. Patting 
i Clairette’s shoulder absently, she cried in an eager 
voice, “Wait for me!” then ran to her room. 

Behind her rang out a clamor of exclamations. 

* Every one knew that La Caralita, whose genius at 
this art had brought her tributes from an entire royal 
world, and for whom throngs had asked in vain for 
months past, was to make her first reappearance now, 
before them. And these friends of hers recognized 

3U 


A SOCIAL LION 


and appreciated the honor she did them. They waited 
eagerly for her to come out, and scarcely a word was 
spoken while she dressed. 

When La Caralita appeared again before her guests 
she was all in white, from head to foot. The waist of 
her costume was of white satin, glittering with gold 
embroidery. Her enormously wide skirt was accordion 
pleated, and beneath it a dozen petticoats of filmy 
white gauze now hid and now revealed the delicate 
outlines of her slender limbs, which were covered with 
white silk tights. Upon her bright hair rested a little 
Moorish cap of the same white and gold, and in one 
hand she carried a tiny white tambourine, from which, 
by long loops of satin ribbon, hung a score of little 
jangling golden bells. With cheeks flushed and eyes 
unduly brilliant she threw herself lovingly into 
the old poise, and to the simple guitar accompani- 
ment, went through that series of motions which had 
once made an enthusiastic admirer compare her to a 
combination of Venus, Terpsichore, and the serpent 
of Eve. On and on she went, now rapidly, now 
slowly, until she fairly filled the rooms as with a full 
white cloud. Into her dancing she could throw all 
the joy that she had ever known. Her spectators 
breathed deeply and quickly. Was it really her art or 
only her magnetism which filled them? Perhaps in 
dancing she gave out the best of herself, and it was 
this that had made her name a living one over all the 
civilized world. 

She danced not longer than ten minutes, but to her 
audience it had been hours and yet no time at all. 
When she stopped she was pallid, nearly exhausted, 
34 2 


THE HAUNT OF ANOTHER LIFE 


but perfectly happy. Four months of idleness had in 
no way diminished her old powers. It was her great 
triumph when, with common consent, the men about 
her lifted her in their arms, and on their shoulders 
carried her to the table, standing her on top of it. 
Then, grouped all about below her, every soul there 
raised a glass and drank to her honor and devo- 
tion. Now loudly they cried for her to speak, but 
with a little tremulous laughter she descended again, 
into Courtenay’s arms, her face as white as death. 
Drew poured out for her a glass of brandy, which 
she gratefully accepted. She was not yet entirely 
convalescent. Seeing her faintness, the rest made 
preparations to go. And a few moments later, as 
the neighboring clocks struck two, Helen Howard 
was alone in her rooms save for the two men, Robert 
Courtenay and Stillwell Drew — ay, and Snippington 
waiting in the room beyond. 

The rivals stood eyeing each other angrily as Fifine 
came in answer to her mistress’s call. Neither would 
make the first move to go. La Caralita watched them 
for a moment, then said calmly: 

“Good-night, gentlemen. I thank you both for 
having been my guests. You have made my evening 
! very pleasant.’’ 

“Goodnight,’’ said Drew at once, bending low over 
her hand, and Courtenay, with scarce perceptible hesi- 
tation, followed him. 

A moment later and the men were gone, but Fifine 
noted, without mentioning the fact, that upon the 
table rested Courtenay’s meerschaum in its pale velvet 
case, and that Drew’s large horn corkscrew, which 
343 


A SOCIAL LION 


was inlaid in gold, lay among the litter of glasses. 
The humorous little point in these things, however, 
escaped the maid’s notice. The impending inter- 
view with Snippington filled her, as it did her 
mistress, with both apprehension and dread. And 
to-night, of all nights, the dancer was in no way 
fitted to cope with this man. But she well knew the 
storm of abuse with which she would presently be 
greeted, for Helen had long since been forced to 
recognize the real character of Snip, the divine. 

“Well, Fifine,” said La Caralita, with as much 
nonchalance as she could command, “let Doctor Snip- 
pington out now.” 


344 


CHAPTER XXII 


“MR. COURTENAY, — DOCTOR SNIPPINGTON’ ’ 

Fifine said not a word, but carefully opened the 
door and went into the room where Titus Emollitus 
Snippington lay. 

Two minutes later he came staggering sleepily into 
the disordered apartment where the orgy had taken 
place. “Umph!” he remarked, looking about him. 

“It’s late, Snip,’’ said Helen, wearily. “Hadn’t 
you better get a cab now and go back to your own 
| rooms?’’ 

“Many thanks!’’ he sneered. “You’ve kept me 
penned up like a beast in a cage all night, while you 
and the rest of them raised the dickens. Now, it’s 
my turn. Fifine! Where is the crea — oh! Fifine, bring 
me something to eat and a couple of bottles.’’ 

‘ ‘ Snippington — please — ’ ’ 

“Hold your tongue, Helen. I’m master here just 
at present. I shall stay until I choose to go, and you 
stay here with me to keep me company and amuse me. 
Was it Fifine with the guitar?’’ 

La Caralita’s eyes blazed with fury. She stood 
before him imperiously: “You miserable cur! Go! 
Out of my rooms!’’ 

Snippington sneered at her, and laughed in an ugly 
i fashion, as already, in her exhaustion, Helen weak- 

345 


A SOCIAL LION 




ened. Fifine, not daring to disobey, set the food 
before him and brought him two bottles of champagne. 
The clergyman kissed her wantonly for the service, 
and then lay back in his chair, laughing with harsh 
mirthlessness as she violently rubbed her cheek. 

“So! You pretty idiot! You don’t love me as you 
do the gallant Courtenay? Well — you shan’t escape 
easily, then. Don’t be impatient. Come — another 
glass. ’ ’ 

Helen looked up at him in amazement. This 
unusual mood was infinitely worse to her than his 
ordinary vehemence. And as she watched his 
small, pinched face, she realized suddenly the posi- 
tion in which she and the frail thing whom she 
called Fifine stood. The one almost utterly lacking 
in bodily strength, the other devoid of courage, they | 
were both at the mercy of an animal. At thought of ! 
this Helen’s nerves suddenly gave way, and she broke 
into a passion of hysterical sobs. Snippington, fork 
in hand, watched her for several moments curiously, 
while the maid, nervous and pallid, stood hesitating 
between them. Then Snippington remarked, with 
his ordinary gentleness, “Get up, fool. Stop choking. 
You make me ill.’’ 

La Caralita did not stop. Would any woman have 
done so? But the clergyman was in earnest. With 
the weaker ones he never hesitated to show himself 
strong. To-night his temper was worse than, usual. 
He was jealous, chilly, and intensely sleepy. The 
revel which had taken place earlier, every sound 
of which he had noted, had roused all that discontent 
at the limitations put upon his calling which had long 
346 


\ 


“MR. COURTENAY,— DR. SNIPPINGTON ,, 


lain dormant in him. Now, thrusting away the cham- 
pagne bottle, and throwing his empty glass aside, he 
strode over to the spot where Helen crouched. Tak- 
ing her by the shoulders he lifted her by main 
strength, despite her struggles, and carried her to 
the table. Helen let no sound escape her, but she 
was quivering in every nerve of her body. The 
room was perfectly noiseless. Snippington was taking 
breath and deciding upon his next move. Suddenly 
to the woman’s ears came a sound — the most delicious 
sound that ever reached her ears. It was the faint 
grating of a key in the lock of the outer door. Snip- 
pington, not being acute of sense, heard nothing. 
Again, absent-mindedly, he filled his glass. But 
already Fifine was running to the door. 

When, early on that evening, Herbert Stagmar had 
left his wife, he did not go home. His mind was not 
in a state to rest. Blindly he had wandered down 
through the city, around and back through the lowest 
i quarters, which he had long known well. He had not 
1 intended returning to his wife’s rooms until far later, 
but the more he thought upon her situation for the 
night, the center of a group of Bohemians, whose 
! reckless spirit he knew only too well himself, the 
i more he desired to be within her reach and near 
( enough to her to insure her safety. Beyond this he 
■ was nervously anxious to talk with her. Her hasty 
' admission that she was about to return to the stage 
I had affected him strongly. He would do all within 
t his power now to keep this woman whom he had 
l once loved from entering again upon a public 

347 


A SOCIAL LION 


career. And then, while he was still musing sadly 
over her position, came the sudden relentless knowl- 
edge that he could save her from an inevitable end if 
he would. It would mean to him the sacrifice of 
everything that he now held high, and — and for years 
already Helen Stagmar had danced before the world. 
This last voice Stagmar did not stop to reason with. 
Time had passed since then, they were no longer 
young, and life wore another aspect. Stagmar had 
long since learned that human souls are somehow 
permitted to mingle in an inextricable jumble with 
each other. Not one is cut exactly to fit its place. 
And in those far-off days he had been hard — she, 
young and marvelously beautiful. Ah! Whatever 
society and society’s god might think, Helen Howard 
had had some excuse for her waywardness. So cried 
the writer to himself, there in the throbbing night. 

After all, it was a quarter to two before Herbert 
stood once more in the lower hallway of the apart- 
ment building, waiting. The lights still shone in her 
rooms, and presently a few people, men for the most 
part, came down the stairs in straggling groups. At 
length, for several minutes no one passed. Stagmar 
still hesitated to go up. Then he saw and recognized 
two men, Robert Courtenay and Stillwell Drew, come 
down the steps and disappear together round the first 
corner outside. For five minutes more he waited 
patiently, then crossed the street to look up once 
again at those windows which this time he hoped to 
find dark. Dark? Still they gleamed forth with a 
multitude of lights, and across one curtain flickered 
grotesquely the shadow of a man. Some low excla- 
348 


“MR. COURTENAY,— DR. SNIPPINGTON ,, 


mation escaped the lips of the dancer’s husband. 
Why should he be so tried? Who was it now? Not 
Courtenay — the favorite. Who, then? Ah! He 
caught a profile view of the man, with his neatly 
clipped side-whiskers. It was the rector of St. 
Matthew’s. Stagmar’s blue eyes blazed with anger. 

The writer crossed the street blindly, almost run- 
ning, actuated by a reckless motive. As he regained 
the hall, and before his foot had been set upon the 
first stair, the tall, slender figure of a man darted into 
the doorway, followed almost instantly by a second, 
shorter one. 

“Courtenay!” gasped the second. 

“Well, Drew, how are you?” and Robert burst 
into a laugh. 

Stagmar, unperceived, moved into a dark corner. 

“Why have you come here?” inquired the dark- 
browed one, in an annoyed tone. 

“I have, most unfortunately, forgotten to bring 
away my meerschaum. But you — if I may ask? — why 
have you returned?” 

“Curiously enough I left my corkscrew on the 
wine-table. I felt obliged to return for it, since I 
value is somewhat highly.” 

There was a moment’s pause; then Courtenay said, 
grinning in the dark: “Well, Drew, we’re both sold. 
May as well make the best of the matter. Neither of 
us will retreat, I suppose. Come along up with me. 
Helen’s very tired, anyhow.” 

Drew, seeing that there was no help for it, nodded, 
and following the other, they passed together up and 
out of sight. Stagmar waited wearily below. 

349 


A SOCIAL LION 


The two young men arrived at the door of those 
rooms together, and then stopped, amazed. From 
within they caught the tones of a man’s voice. Cour- 
tenay glared around at his companion, with a quick 
nod of his head toward the door. 

“By Jove!” responded Drew with dry lips. 

“Who the devil can it be?” 

“Possibly some one who happened to forget his 
cigarette-case,” sneered Drew in reply. “Come on; 
we’d better go.” 

“Go? Well, no. Upon the whole, I think not. I 
want a look at the gentleman inside, and besides that 
I’ve no desire to present Fifine’s last beloved with my 
pet pipe. Why, man, it’s the color of weak coffee 
already. Not burned a scrap!” With these enthu- 
siastic words, Courtenay saw his companion raise his 
hand to the bell. Smiling gently, he grasped it and 
pulled it down. Then, still smiling, he took from his 
pocket a key which fitted into the lock. 

Stillwell Drew and Robert Courtenay entered the 
rooms together. As they appeared in the doorway 
of the parlor, Fifine backing before them, a little cry 
of relief and surprise broke from the dancer’s lips. 

One moment of utter silence ; then, with an unsteady 
smile, La Caralita said: “Doctor Snippington, let me 
present Mr. Robert Courtenay and Mr. Stillwell Drew! 
Gentlemen, the Reverend Titus Emollitus Snippington 
of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church.” 


350 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 

Quivering apprehensively, Snippington set down 
his glass. His face was now the color of lead and his 
eyes were expressionless and glassy. Stupidly he 
stared at first one and then the other of the two 
mockingly polite faces before him. It was several 
minutes before another word was spoken, and during 
this time a slow realization of the import of this meet- 
ing was breaking over Titus Emollitus. Either of 
these two men might ruin him now at a word if he 
would. Would they care to take the trouble to do it? 
This fearful question seemed to be decided by the 
next words of Helen Howard, who was almost beside 
herself with weariness, nervousness, and the fear of 
what this man was going to do next. Moving close 
to Drew, and staring up into Courtenay’s face, she 
addressed both of them hysterically: 

“Aren’t you going to take this man away from me? 
He hates me as I hate him. He is quite capable of 
murdering me. He is wicked, horrible, worse than 
any one else. If you can do so, use your influence to 
take him out of the city. While he is here I shall be 
in danger. Will you help me?” 

As she finished this speech Helen violently clasped 
Courtenay’s arm and held to it as one in an agony. 

35i 


A SOCIAL LION 


The two men drew her between them, touched by 
her evident terror. Each outwardly promised support, 
each inwardly vowed far more — the ruin of the clergy- 
man, his departure from the city. 

Meantime Snippington had stepped forward. In 
his left hand he held his coat and his hat, with his 
right he touched the shoulder of the dancer, who 
shrank from him: 

“You, Helen,” he said, in a voice harsh from 
effort to make it sound at all, “and these — these — 
gentlemen also — I bid you a very good night.” So, 
cold and trembling, Snippington departed. 

As he passed down the long flights and through the 
halls he seemed to detect a strange smell as of a fire. 
Snippington shook himself and frowned, blaming his 
imagination for an evil omen; for his creed charged 
him to believe in hell. At the lower entrance he 
passed a man wearing a dark coat. It was Stagmar, 
still waiting miserably. 

Five minutes later the two other men, having seen 
the dancer quieted and in the hands of her maid, fol- 
lowed in the footsteps of Snippington. They spoke 
but little. Upon reaching the second floor Courtenay 
suddenly sniffed the air. “Drew!” he said, “do you 
smell fire?” 

“It’s smoke!” cried the other instantly. 

In fact, by the dim light of the gas jet on the floor 
above were visible thin curls of blue-black smoke, 
pouring from the crack of a door opening off the land- 
ing. Courtenay applied his shoulder to the door. 
Then the two men threw themselves against it. As 
it creaked they drew back only in time to escape a 
35 2 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 


giant tongue of flame which leaped out toward them 
as from a dragon’s mouth. 

“Good God! Drew! Run and send off the alarm, 
wh'.le I get Helen and the maid down. It’s a fire- 
trap, this place.’’ 

B;/ the time Courtenay had finished Drew was half- 
way <!own the stairs on his way toward the alarm-box. 
Courtenay at the same time was darting back up. In 
one moment he stood again within that much visited 
little parlor. It was empty. 

“Filne!” he shouted, running toward the door of 
Helen’s bedroom, inside of which a discouraging 
spectade met his eyes. The maid was working 
anxiously over the lifeless form of the dancer, who lay 
in a dead faint. The strain of the evening had been 
too much for her, and after the excitement was over, 
woman fashion, she had given way completely. 

“Lord! Mr. Courtenay! What’s the matter now? 
Tou’re white!’’ said the maid, looking curiously up 
from her mistress. 

“Now, don’t you get excited, Fifine. Just leave 
Miss Howard to me, and hurry along yourself. 
Don’t attempt to save anything. There’s a fire 
downstairs. ’’ 

“Fire!’’ gasped the girl, the color underneath the 
rouge flying from her cheeks. She seemed suddenly 
helpless. Courtenay grasped her roughly by the 
shoulders. 

“Come, now, don’t behave like a fool. I can’t 
carry both of you, and your life depends on yourself. 
Go on. Get down while you can. Go through what- 
ever you must. It’s the only way. ’’ 

353 


A SOCIAL LION 


Then Fifine, with a little cry, ran crazily out of 
the rooms, and down, down the creaking stairs. So 
she passes away from our story. Courtenay, left 
alone with La Caralita, swung her light body to 
his shoulders and held her there as one would 
have carried a heavy bundle. Then leaving behind 
him the fated rooms, he rapidly gained the stair?. If 
only there were an elevator! This he thought to him- 
self as he peered into the depths far below. Already 
the lower stories were veiled in swirls of smoke, 
amidst which, here and there, rose patches of flame. 
Courtenay’s senses seemed trebled in intensity. By 
leaping downward three steps at a time he quickly 
gained the second story. Here before him seemed 
to rise a living wall of flame. A sort of madness 
came over the man. Shouting aloud a few phrases 
from a great opera, and holding Helen to his breast 
to prevent the fire from scorching her flesh, he 
rushed headlong into and through the flames, arriving 
on the other side of the seething barrier with hair and 
brows scorched. Three seconds more and he stood in 
the street, but even as he stepped from the threshold 
he felt the whole building tremble and creak in the 
gigantic force of the heat. 

About the entrance, and on the side of the struc- 
ture farthest from the flames, despite the hour of the 
morning, a crowd was already collecting. Men and* 
boys of all ages, with here and there a woman among 
them, had poured up from that part of the city which 
is the scene of madness by night and filthy want during 
the day. The dwellers of that quarter are always first 
to be seen at any happening where tragedy, horror, 
354 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 


and destruction have a possibility of moving hand in 
hand. Courtenay rapidly scanned the faces nearest 
him. Neither Drew nor Fifine was anywhere visible, 
but, strange as it seemed to Courtenay, Herbert Stag- 
i mar was. Robert beckoned him at once, and the 
writer anxiously hurried forward. 

“I cannot understand where the engines are. I 
rang for them ten minutes ago — ” 
i “Help me a bit here, Herbert. This lady has 
; fainted. Have you a brandy flask about you?” whis- 
pered Courtenay, quickly, not caring to attract atten- 
tion to his burden. 

“Ah! La Caralita! Thank God! No, Bob, I 
haven’t any brandy. But she will come to speedily 
now, I think. ” 

They laid her down in an out-of-the-way corner of 
the walk, upon their coats, and Stagmar picked up 
one of her hands to chafe. At the first touch of that 
strong, light hand, Helen Stagmar quivered, opened 
her eyes, and looked at him with a dazed smile. “What 
has happened?” she gasped. 

“Fire, my dear,” responded Courtenay, pleasantly, 
from the other side. “But you and Fifine are both 
out safely — though I don’t know where she is just 
now. ” 

Even in the faint light of the still reluctant flames 
;both men noted the sudden gleam of fear and anxiety 
that shot into her eyes at Courtenay’s words. 
“Philip!” she cried, convulsively. “Where is Philip! 
The child! My boy! Surely, you didn’t leave him 
there — ” 

The two men, Stagmar and Courtenay, glanced 
355 




A SOCIAL LION 


first at each other, then at the tall building oppo- 
site, from one side of which a whirling tower of fire 
was already rising. Fear lay strong in their eyes. 
“Philip?” asked Courtenay, vaguely. “Where was 
he?” 

“He slept in the room next to mine. He was 
asleep. He is only a tiny boy,” groaned the dancer, 
in despairing reply. 

“We must get him; I’ll try, Helen,” answered 
Courtenay, quickly. But the wonjan looked up for 
Stagmar. The'writer had disappeared. 

Courtenay started silently away, but before he was 
out of Helen’s sight her husband reappeared quietly. 

“Some of the men have got hold of a ladder. I 
have spoken about the child. I shall go up to get 
him. It is useless to try the inside. The place is a 
mere shell now.” Stagmar went over to Helen. 
“Good-by,” he said. “I will do everything that I 
can.” He looked once into her blind eyes, and then 
hurried away toward the other side of the burning 
building. Helen followed at a distance which fear 
made her keep, but Courtenay was at his side. 

“Bert,” he said, hurriedly, “I’m going up that 
ladder instead of you. I told Helen I would.” 

Stagmar laid his hand for a moment on the other’s 
shoulder as they walked. “You must give me the 
first chance, Bob. It is possible that more than one 
trial of it will have to be made.” 

They were now at the side of the building from 
which least smoke poured. Gazing upward the two 
fourth-story windows were still to be seen lighted bril- ' 
liantly. These were the guiding points, the goal 
356 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 


which was to be reached by the ascent. The sleeping 
child lay in a room across that parlor — and — and no 
one knew how long the floors would last. Down on 
the ground Beneath these windows was a little group 
of men staring stupidly at a short, thick ladder which 
just reached the window-sill of the first story above. 
Its one great feature was not at first sight apparent. 
When Courtenay saw it he cried out in despair, but 
Stagmar nodded with high satisfaction as he immedi- 
ately approached it. Robert sprang after him. 
“Herbert!” he cried, grasping the strong arm vehe- 
mently. “I’m going up on that thing first. I’ve no 
life worth saving. You have. I shall go. I have 
the right. What is a child of Helen Howard to a 
man like you?” 

Herbert Stagmar, looking white and haggard in the 
weird light, whispered to him sadly: “I have the 
right, Bob. A greater one than you. Helen Howard 
is my lawful wife.” Then, as Courtenay stood star- 
ing at him, petrified, the writer placed his foot upon 
the first round of the ladder. 

The feat which Herbert Stagmar now performed 
was accomplished by actual count in something less 
than ten minutes. If it would seem in the telling to 
be treble that length, it is only because the emotions 
of human beings are capable of enormous increase in 
rapidity of vibration when strong excitement and 
repression is brought to bear on them. 

A rumor whose words held something of awe had 
circulated among the crowd that an attempt was to 
be made by some one to rescue the life of a person 
still in the building. According to the universal law 

357 


A SOCIAL LION 


of curiosity, then, there was a general move to the 
side of the structure where stood Herbert Stagmar 
and the little group of men about the ladder. Arrived 
there, there was a furious struggle for the best posi- 
tions, for they found that their spectacle had already 
begun. A man stood upon the projecting sill of one 
of the first story windows, directly underneath the 
lighted one far above which he wanted to reach. His 
ladder was one story tall, and the second sill rose 
perpendicularly above his head, and none could per- 
ceive that in the two top shafts of the old fire ladder 
were imbedded two stout hooks of iron. The crowd 
held its breath. What was he going to do? 

Covering their eyes with their hands and then 
peering nervously through their fingers, people 
watched him, as, balancing gingerly on the ledge, he 
lifted his instrument high from the lofty perch and 
crashed it suddenly through the glass in the window 
above. The hooks caught in the inner sill and held. 
The scaling ladder worked well. The lower end of it 
hung unsupported before him, and once more the 
madman began, rapidly, carefully, easily, to ascend. 
It was a miracle, incredible to all but those who saw it. 

Upon the outer edge of the crowd stood Cour- 
tenay with Helen. Robert held the woman, who was 
nearly beside herself. Neither of them could watch. 
At the first moment Courtenay’s heart had turned sick. 
It was useless to imagine that Stagmar would come 
back to them except in death. Robert himself was 
ready to make a second and even more desperate trial 
if necessary, but this sight he could not watch. The 
language of faint groans and sighs by which a multitude 

358 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 


interprets strong feeling, and the fearful breathless- 
ness between each faint noise is perfectly intel- 
ligible to the human heart of any nationality. Thus 
La Caralita, from second to second, knew that her 
husband still lived, that he was progressing on that 
fearful way. And all the while she could not see him, 
and dared not look at the window above. 

And Stagmar himself? Stagmar was unconscious 
of his position, utterly reckless of himself. The mur- 
murs of the people below came faintly to his ears, but 
he did not try to think what they meant. His eyes 
noted one by one the rounds of the ladder which his 
feet were pressing. His breath came steadily. His 
pulse was slow. His body was dripping and cold with 
sweat, but that he did not know. 

He felt only that the blistering heat from the 
rocking building was scorching the wood of his ladder, 
but the desperation of his situation did not appal him. 
A second consciousness held for him the knowledge 
that a soul was waiting for him above — of the one 
praying for him below he thought not at all. Again 
he stood upon a sill, and again the ladder with its 
providential appendages was unhesitatingly flung up 
into the next window above. Once more it caught, 
and his powerful body swung up and up through 
space. He was half way to the next stopping place 
when a sudden sound smote his ears. He never knew 
afterward that this noise was perceptible to him min- 
utes before it reached the ears of any one else. It 
was the clang of fire-bells. The delayed engines were 
coming at last. A sudden fear thrilled into his heart, 
the terror of realization. He caught his breath. For 

359 


A SOCIAL LION 


the instant he had come near to relaxing his hold. A 
second more and he was safe again, going on swiftly, 
steadily. Next a low chorus of words reached him 
from below. He thought them only a general relief 
at sound of the bells, but he was wrong. In the 
fourth-story window, with its lights, the people were 
watching a little pale, dark-eyed face pressed close 
against the pane. The white of his night-clothes 
showed in weird contrast to the black of his tumbled 
hair. It was Philip, the child. 

Now, for the first time, Helen Howard looked up. 
She shuddered, but continued to watch, fascinated. 
Stagmar stood upon the third sill. Reluctantly the 
crowd was making way for the engines. Courtenay 
had left her side and was with the fire marshal. This 
was the sight she saw: 

Upon the white stone ledge in the air stood her 
god, lifting the black ladder in both arms. Below, 
from every window he had left, poured black, gusty 
spirals of smoke. High over his head, across the 
roof, a madly merry flame leaped over toward the 
window which framed the figure of the child. The 
whirring roar of the now mighty fire was deafening. 
The shadow of eternity seemed to be cutting the 
woman off from the sight of husband and child. 

For the last time the short ladder was lifted. With 
an unheard cry the boy started back as the black 
things flew in upon him and caught in the window- 
sash. Bits of glass spattered about; one or two of 
them cutting the delicate hands. But paralyzed by 
his loneliness and the instinctive knowledge of his 
danger, Philip stood there quietly until a dark head 
360 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 


appeared without the window, and finally the shoul- 
ders, arms, and body of the man who presently swung 
into the room beside him. From the crowd came one 

[ 

sharp shout of praise; then silence again, save for the 
! increasing noise of the bursting flames about the two — 
i Herbert Stagmar and Snippington’s child. 

“Climb to my back and hold there tight — so. Now 
keep your eyes shut if you can, and if you don’t do 
that, then look up. Understand?’’ he muttered 
expressionlessly, and the man-child nodded, as he 
placed his thin arms about his rescuer’s neck. Philip 
was a light burden, and Stagmar breathed a little 
with relief as he turned again hurriedly to the window. 

Just outside came the top rounds of a mighty 
jointed ladder which was being swung through the air 
from below, while a hundred hands pointed eagerly 

J at the window toward which it had been directed. 
Stagmar waited patiently until his staircase of safety 
rested lightly on the sill beside him. He gave one 
swift look down through the hot, smoky air, one back 
at the room which seemed to be already shriveling 
with flames, and a third into the pallid face of the 
child. Then carefully he climbed out and began his 
downward journey. 

It was to him infinitely more terrible than the 
ascent. Then his position had been such that his 
senses had refused to realize it. He had worked like 
a stupid man. Now the overtaxed nerves asserted 
themselves, and each downward step had become a 
fear. Flames seemed now to be leaping from every 
window, even that which held his ladder, and upon 
which a heavy stream of water played. Hot perspira- 
36 1 


A SOCIAL LION 


tion rolled from his face and arms as he calculated 
the possibility of the frame above giving way. And 
those below who had watched the fearless ascent 
marveled as they saw the shadowy black figure 
crawling downward toward them, stop every now and 
then, and seem to tremble as it proceeded. Through 
the flickering sheets of fire that waved above the roof 
Stagmar could see a little group of firemen who 
wielded axe and hose for him from there. Further 
effort was useless. Nothing now could save the 
building. The engines had come too late for that. 

Suddenly with a leap of terror at his heart Stagmar 
felt the arms about his neck loosen their brave hold. 
Instantly he threw himself flat along the ladder and 
caught the two tiny hands in his own cold ones. 
“What is it, Phil? Afraid, little chap?” 

There was no answer. With a low exclamation he 
worked the child around from his back with painful 
difficulty, and held the little fainting figure over one 
shoulder. Then hurriedly the descent was renewed. 
There was no time to be lost. The walls were rocking 
violently in the hot wind. Now there were but twenty 
rounds left for his bruised feet to press. Philip had 
become inexpressibly heavy. The crowd below saw 
the strong figure waver, and prepared to catch him 
should he fall. How long the descent had been! 
Almost twice the length of time which that wonderful 
ascent had occupied. Two eternal seconds more and 
the ground, God’s earth, lay under Herbert Stagmar’s 
feet. Some one took from him the child. But some 
one was not Helen Howard. She was beside her 
hero, tears from her eyes raining down upon his hand, 
362 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 

which she grasped. He was surrounded by men and 
women of the streets — all of them with souls, good 
people, eager to clasp his right hand in pride of 
brotherhood. Then, as he looked about on friendly 
faces beaming with their admiration, and heard the 
voices shaking, for those who had seen his deed 
could not speak easily now, he quietly fainted. 

Immediately he was carried from the throng and 
laid down upon a pile of coats. Whisky was put to 
his lips, hands fought for the privilege of chafing his. 
He was not long allowed the blessing of unconscious- 
ness. When his eyes opened again Courtenay stood 
beside him with the child. “There is a carriage here, 
Bert, if you can reach it now.” 

And the people were astounded to hear this man in 
evening dress, top hat, and light coat calling the 
roughly-clad hero by a given name. Some of them 
would have liked to resent it, but stared a little, and 
then smiled as the writer said, faintly: 

“All right now, Bob, I guess; though I don’t know 
quite what I’m about yet. Good deal of a strain, you 
know. ’’ 

They were about to start toward the vehicle when 
Stagmar was addressed by the fire marshal, who had 
just come up and laid his hand upon the writer’s 
shoulder. 

“My man,’’ he said, “if you want to go into the 
service under me, you shall have a good position, and 
I’ll vouch for it that your examination will not be 
severe. You’d work your way up in no time.’’ 

“Thank you very much,’’ responded Stagmar, 
smiling, “but I have no desire whatsoever to enter 

363 


A SOCIAL LION 




| 


the service. It would be utterly impossible for me to ti 
do again what I have done to-night.” 

‘‘Well, you’d probably never have another chance 
at anything so tough. Just give me your name, any- y< 
how, and if ever you like to come in you’ll be taken, q 
I’ m pretty sure. ” $ 

‘‘Thank you,” repeated Stagmar, ‘‘but really I 
shall not care to enter the force.” av 

As he passed on, however, Courtenay, who followed an 
him, leaned over toward the fireman confidentially. $ 
‘‘He might have given his name,” he said. “Since k 
he didn’t, I will, for him.” And to the marshal’s “If St; 
you please, sir,” replied, “Perhaps you may have f a: 
heard of him. He is, I believe, quite widely known D c 
as Herbert Stagmar.” And Courtenay went on, ^ 
chuckling in great glee with himself as the marshal ^ 
dropped back in embarrassment. 

The four, Courtenay, Stagmar, Helen, and the 
child, stood beside the carriage that Robert had 
found — heaven knows where. 

“Is there room for us all, Bob?” 

“I don’t know — I guess not. How do you want to 
be fixed?” asked Courtenay, awkwardly, thinking of 
the revelation that had been made to him that night. 
“Helen will go with me, and — ” 

“I!” interrupted La Caralita, with a little 
“Certainly not, Mr. Stagmar. It will be perfectly 
easy for me to reach some place where I can pass 
the night with Philip. I know many people about 
here.” 

“Do not try to shield me before Robert, Helen. 
He is aware of our relationship. Of course, until the 
364 


cry. 


THE COURAGE OF TWO 


time comes he will say nothing about it. But Philip? 
I suppose he comes with us?” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Courtenay, hastily, “if 
you will permit it, I should like to keep the child with 
me for a day or two. After that we shall see. I’ll 
get him home now. It’s nearly morning.” 

This was true. As the creaky hack drove slowly 
away from the scene of the fire with Herbert Stagmar 

I and his wife, a dim streak of the dawn lighted up the 
still fiery pile of ruins beneath which lay forever buried 

■ the wayward life of a wayward woman. Joan Howard 
f Stagmar, tossing restlessly in her sleep within her 
e father’s house, heard in a dim consciousness the open- 

II ing of the door which was to let in upon her life a 
ii great change, a deep trouble, and a new joy — one 

greater than all else. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE DISGRACE OF ONE 

A strong feeling of sympathy and intimate under- 
standing for the Stagmars had suddenly sprung up in 
the heart of Robert Courtenay. The events of that 
night of fire had deepened his admiration of the char- 
acter of the woman, and had excited in him a respect 
for the writer which he had perhaps never felt for any 
other person, save perhaps only his mother, who had 
come from so old and fine a New York family that she 
had never been able to wear black stockings. Now 
on that early dawn, before he retired, worn out with 
the startling events of the night, and after having 
consigned the boy Philip to the astonished mercies of 
the dubious Williams, he had not been able to realize 
the fact that henceforth Herbert Stagmar was to be 
regarded as a family man, his wife (horrible!) being 
La Caralita, of the Moulin Rouge, La Scala, and Ros- 
ter & Bial’s! But by the time he had slept over the 
knowledge, and lay staring up at the ceiling with his 
sleepy eyes at noon next day, it was not so very 
astounding after all. Anything in the way of a scan- 
dal had never been known to remain a nine-days’ gos- 
siping point for the redoubtable Courtenay; still, a 
scandal in connection with Stagmar, the exemplary, 
was a novelty fresh as Darlington butter. 

366 


THE DISGRACE OF ONE 


“Tight place for him, on my word,” pondered 
Robert, tumbling his drawer into a pile of chaff in 
search of the right shaped collar button. “How in 
the deuce d’he ever come to marry her? That’s the 
wonder. How long ago was it, and how could he keep 
so mum about it all? Was it long a — Williams! where 
have you put the brushes? — Must have been a dog’s 
age. Oh, most probably. There’s Joan. Certain 
now whose daughter she is. — Not so hard, for heaven’s 
sake! My head isn’t patent-leather. — Stagmar’s, I’d 
wager anything. Else where did her eyes come from? 
How’s the young one this morning, Williams?’’ 

“He’s up, sir.’’ 

“Sleep well?’’ 

“Yes, sir; not a sound after I’d put him in.” 

“Dare say he’d like something to eat, wouldn’t he? 
Does he eat, do you fancy, or just take what-do-you- 
call-it — Mellin’s Food out of a bottle?’’ 

“He seems to have teeth, sir. He bit a string in 
two this morning — one that got knotted in his 
clothes. ’’ 

“That so? Guess he could manage a chop, then.’’ 

Chops and coffee for two were ordered, and Cour- 
tenay somewhat nervously took his place at the head 
of that little table which was familiar to so many 
Coralies and Clairettes. Here he proceeded to cut 
the meat into microscopic bits, still under the impres- 
sion that the tiny mouth opposite would have difficulty 
in masticating anything so solid as a chop. Philip 
seemed interested in the meal, although he did not 
eat very heartily. Robert, however, was pleased with 
his table manners, and wished him to talk. 

367 


A SOCIAL LION 


To Courtenay’s satisfaction he spoke suddenly, 
pointing to a photograph which hung near him on the 
wall, “Do you know Mr. Stagmar?’’ 

“Oh, yes; very well. Do you?” 

“Yes, I do. I’d like to see him.’’ 

“You did see him last night. He took you out of 
the window when the house burned. Didn’t you know 
that?’’ 

The child shook his head thoughtfully. 

“Is Mr. Stagmar your daddy, Philip?’’ 

“What’s that?’’ 

“Your papa — father, you know.’’ 

“Oh, no. He’s not my father.’’ 

“Who is, then?’’ 

“May I tell? My mother said for me not to tell 
unless somebody was going to help me.’’ 

“Well, you will want me to help you. Tell me 
about him.” 

The child regarded him seriously for a moment or 
two, and then said, slowly, and with great care as to 
pronunciation, “My father is the Reverend Titus 
Emollitus Snippington, of St. Matthew’s Episcopal 
Church of Chicago.” 

“Who taught you that?” 

“My mother.” 

“Will you say it for me to a large, old gentleman 
that I am going to take you to see this morning?” 

Philip did not answer. He had finished eating and 
was tired of being questioned. Getting down from his 
chair he went over and stood by the photograph of 
Stagmar, his napkin hanging from his neck, his tiny 
hands clasped unconsciously before him. “Mr. Stag- 
368 


THE DISGRACE OF ONE 


mar took me driving sometimes in a big, beautiful car 
riage, ” he observed, without guile, contemplatively. 

“Did he?” asked Courtenay, interested at once in 
this revelation. “Did he go with you himself?” 

“Only once. ” 

Courtenay did not want any more rolls, and there 
was nothing at all in the Tribune this morning. He 
rose and strolled over to the window. “Well, Philip, 
I’m going to take you driving in a ‘big, beautiful 
carriage’ myself this morning, or rather this afternoon. 
We shall drive for a bit, and then we must stop to see 
the large old gentleman I spoke of a minute ago. 
You must be a good boy, and answer him if he asks 
you any questions. Will you?” 

“Yes, if we drive first/’ answered Philip, with a 
view to business. Courtenay nodded in reply to him, 
and then stopped suddenly and began to examine the 
child critically. 

“What’s the trouble with your clothes, chicken? 
Seems to me they’re a bit queer.” 

Philip looked up anxiously. “They aren’t mine,” 
he said, with a little quiver in his voice that suggested 
apprehension of ridicule. 

“No, they don't seem to fit exactly. Who got ’em 
for you?” 

The child pointed mysteriously toward the bed-room 
beyond. “The man in there,” he said, in a whisper. 

“Williams!” 

“Yes, Mr. Courtenay.” Williams appeared at the 
door covered with confusion and blacking. In his 
left hand he held a boot. 

“Where did you get these things for the child?” 

3 6 9 


A SOCIAL LION 


‘Well, you see, sir, begging your pardon, when 
you brought him in this morning he hadn’t nothing on 
but his night garments; seeing which I made bold to 
borrow these things from the linen lady in the house, 
with who I’m acquainted, as it happens. She has a 
boy of her own, sir, something this size.” 

‘‘I see. Well, take some money and go uptown 
now immediately, and get him some clothes, and hat, 
and coat, and gloves, and things, and then return 
these to the linen lady with thanks and — a — perhaps 
a little remuneration for her courtesy. Understand?” 

Williams did understand, and having successfully 
removed the blacking, started out with some nervous- 
ness upon his shopping expedition. Fortunately this 
invaluable valet had a very good eye for size, and 
assisted also by Fate, the things which he brought back : 
were as nearly a fit for the childish figure as one could 
have wished. Philip looked very nicely when at 
length, somewhat late in the afternoon, he sallied forth 
clinging to Courtenay’s hand. But there was tribula- 
tion in his small heart, for never before had he been 
so worked and disputed over. In the end it had been 
only with the aid of the merciful linen lady, who 
kindly refrained from expressing her exact opinion 
of Courtenay, that he was untied, unbuttoned, and 
unhooked, as it were, and put correctly together. 

The drive, however, proved a balm to Philip’s 
aching spirit, for the victoria was as big and beautiful 
as he could have wished, and Mr. Courtenay’s hat 
shone like a lofty silk sun. It was something after 
five when the two alighted at the imposing residence 
of the Episcopal bishop, and found his reverence at 
37o 


THE DISGRACE OF ONE 


home. And Robert was in the most excellent of 
humors as he seated himself comfortably to await 
Titus Emollitus Snippington’s chief. Philip was 
beside him on a high chair, neither knowing nor car- 
ing what they were doing here, swinging his feet con- 
tentedly and rejoicing in the brightness of his small 
shoes. 

The “large gentleman” did not keep them waiting 
| long. He was a prompt man, and besides that Mr. 
Courtenay’s card was of considerable importance. 
He entered the room where they sat with a magis- 
terial air, but greeted both his visitors cordially. 
To the long conversation which followed Philip 
did not pay much attention. He was more inter- 
ested in listening to a parrot which in some part 
of the house was repeating the Lord’s prayer with 
great fervor. He was very sorry when the bishop 
rose with annoyance and an apology to shut the door. 
But presently a photograph which Philip recognized 
was brought out. Courtenay and the other discussed 
it for a little in low voices, while Philip examined the 
birds which were carved upon the mantel. And then 
the large gentleman turned suddenly to him and asked 
in a pleasant voice, “My boy, do you know this per- 
I son?” showing the photograph. 

“Yes,” answered Philip, with a little hesitation. 

“Tell him who it is,” said Courtenay, curtly; and 
for the second time came the boy’s answer, slowly 
and carefully given: 

“That is my father, the Reverend Titus Emollitus 
Snippington, of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church, of 
Chicago.” 


37i 


A SOCIAL LION 


Bishop Cleering looked at the child and sighed 
perplexedly. 

“I am afraid, Mr. Courtenay, that there is not 
much room for doubt, but still I wish that I might 
talk with — the woman.” 

“I am extremely sorry, bishop. That would be 
impossible. Unfortunately the woman is a lady.” 

“I must have an interview with him to-night. You 
have done all that is necessary, but the boy I wish 
you to leave with me, for the present. I will provide 
for him in some way afterward. It is all very sad, 
and very difficult also. However, it must be gone 
through with. It rarely happens, thank God ! Good 
day, Mr. Courtenay.” 

So Philip missed his homeward drive, and remained j 
with Bishop Cleering, comforted only by the thought ( 
of the parrot. 

Meantime Courtenay, having returned to his rooms 
at the club, burst in upon Williams vigorously. “I 
want some foolscap, Williams. There’s none here. 
Bring some up from the writing-room, and plenty of 
it, Williams, and I’m out to everybody.” 

Williams, the imperturbable, disappeared, wonder- i 
ing what lady Mr. Courtenay chose to address upon f 
foolscap instead of his own note paper. Meantime t 
Robert sat at his desk smiling to himself in very good 
spirits, counting off something on his fingers. When f 
Williams returned with the desired article Courtenay i 
looked up at him mischievously. “I’ve got to earn 
some money, Williams. I am about to become a i 
literary hack and scandal-monger.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Williams, absently; then sud- 


THE DISGRACE OF ONE 


denly breaking out with, “I beg pardon, sir, but— is 
Master Philip to be got ready for dinner to-night?” 

“No, my good man. Your trials are over. Philip 
has been dropped at the wayside; in other words, at 
the house of the bishop.” 

Williams mustered sufficient dignity to cover his 
joy, and hastily departed to the linen lady for con- 
gratulations. 

Meantime, while the boy was rapturously occupied 
with the devout parrot, Courtenay was toiling labori- 
ously through an article which he purposed sending 
to the Tribune, with a personal letter to the editor, 

I whom he knew. This present business should be done 
thoroughly or not at all. The discomfiture of Snip- 
I pington was a thing to be rejoiced over, and, whether 
: or no, his half-made promise to Helen Howard — she 
was not yet to be called Helen Stagmar — should be 
; fulfilled to the letter. The article which Robert pre- 
I pared upon the subject was as racy as he dared make 
it, dwelt much upon “the lady” without giving an 
: idea of whom she was, and would altogether, its 
author flattered himself, make singularly enjoyable 

■ reading to any one who had known the fervent wor- 
:j ship which had been bestowed upon the exposed 
t man. 

Meantime the falling idol was keeping to his rooms 
[j during the day. The memory of the scene of the 
| night before was not so very troublesome when once 
he had slept over it, and still Titus was not altogether 
; at his ease. He had for some time been aware 
that his “foible” was known by several men, and 

■ having grown accustomed to this knowledge, it no 

373 


A SOCIAL LION 


longer appeared menacing to him. He felt the 
scene of the night before to have been entirely the 
fault of the dancer, and he was in consequence vio- 
lently angry with her. But as for his ruin being 
brought about by either of the two men, Snippington 
did not believe in that. He did not know the extent 
to which some men can hate a cad. Here, as ever, 
the small divine’s vanity rode over his judgment. 
Still, during the whole morning he was ill at ease, and 
did nothing but restlessly toss a novel about, as 
though balancing with it the fate of his reputation. 
It was not till afternoon that he felt able to concen- 
trate his mind upon a delayed sermon. 

About an hour before dinner he was interrupted 
by a note, a pleasant little epistle from the bishop. 

He was requested to call that evening upon a small 
matter of business. The request was courteous in the 
extreme, nevertheless Snippington’s lips dried sud- 
denly as he read it. At best, it was a coincidence. 
However, there was no use in shirking the call. And it 
might be merely about confirmation classes — relieving 
thought! At any rate, whatever Titus Emollitus of 
St. Matthew’s feared, hoped, or fancied, he stood at 
the door of the bishop’s residence at eight o’clock 
that evening. 

He was shown at once into the bishop’s study, a 
small room, done in oak, and surrounded with book- 
shelves. The small stand in the corner was piled with 
calf-bound tomes, and upon the desk was a litter of 
papers that portended a Sunday sermon. Snipping- 
ton had not to wait. True, the bishop was in the 
midst of dinner, but that small fact made no differ- 
374 


THE DISGRACE OF ONE 


ence. The greeting of his reverence was cold, so Snip 
thought, twisting a little. 

“Good evening. I am glad to see that you are 
prompt. This little matter will not take a moment. 
You may come in, child. Snippington, is this your 
son?” 

Philip, as he had been instructed, entered the 
room, and stood quietly before his father. 

If Bishop Cleering had at all doubted Mr. Cour- 
tenay’s necessarily disinterested statement, that doubt 
was now removed. Snippington had half risen, and 
was glaring about him like a wounded beast. His 
face was gray as ashes. His breath came in gasps 
from his open mouth. He sank back into a chair 
without a word. The child drew back a little at sight 
of him. 

“Philip, go to Mrs. Cleering, and have your wraps 
put on,’’ said the bishop, with something like pity in 
his voice. 

When the child came back a few decisive words 
had settled forever the fate of the dearly beloved 
Titus. He was no longer reverend. The city was 
not his place. His downfall had come before that of 
the man he hated. He took his child by the little, 
warm hand and dragged him away into the night. A 
few hours later he, with the unhappy Philip, was 
gone. Chicago saw him no more. 

Courtenay’s article in the Tribune next morning 
was an astonishing success, although it must be con- 
fessed that myriad were the inquiries as to the “lady’’ 
in the case — concerning whom no one was ever the 
w iser — and that numerous feminine minds were tern- 

375 


A SOCIAL LION 


porarily embittered toward religion after the exposure 
of the sympathetic rector of St. Matthew’s. 

So ended the brief, brilliant career of Titus E. 
Jones, alias Snippington, whose downfall had only 
come through a too ardent espousal of the pleasanter 
points of modern realism. 


376 


CHAPTER XXV 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 

Late on the morning after the apartment fire, Her- 
bert Stagmar left his room, only to shut himself 
within his study. Carson informed him that Joan had 
been up for some time, and that he believed she had 
gone out. The butler knew that his master had come 
in at half-past four that morning, but of the presence 
of Helen in the house he was totally unaware. When 
they reached his home Stagmar had shown her into a 
great bedchamber, such a one as she had not seen 
before, and there he left her. After she had mus- 
tered courage to lie down upon the bed, she sank at 
once into a heavy slumber from which she did not 
; awaken until noon that day. When she opened 
her eyes her first thought was to reach her husband 
j unseen by any one else in the house, and then 
I rely upon his morning judgment to — send her away 
from him. For to her this seemed the only thing to 
be done. 

Very cautiously she made her way along the wide 
hall, finally reaching the head of the stairs. She was 
still dressed in the white embroidered dancer’s cos- 
tume in which Courtenay had carried her from the 
burning building. Now, in the pitiless light of the 
noonday sun, the broad streaks of dirt and wet upon 
377 


A SOCIAL LION 


the worn satin were relentlessly exposed. The tulle 
skirts underneath hung about her feet in shredded 
fringes; and her face, rising above the strange dress, 
looked unwontedly old, and sallow, and worn, and 
streaked, as it still was, with disordered rouge. The 
one beautiful thing about her was the magnificent 
crown of tangled red hair, here and there traced with a 
thread of white. 

Slowly the dancer descended the stairs, hesitating 
at each landing, glancing about her into each gloomy 
corner, fearful of discovery, everywhere hoping to 
encounter her husband. She had reached the last 
step, and then stood still, wondering which way to 
turn, when suddenly some one stepped out of a door- 
way on her right and came rapidly toward her. 
Despite the half-darkness of the hall where she stood, 
Helen recognized her daughter instantly. She was 
going upstairs. With a sudden exclamation, Joan 
stopped short as she perceived the figure before her, 
whom she did not recognize. 

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” she 
asked, in a startled voice. 

Helen winced. “I wish to see Mr. Stagmar,” she 
said, gently. 

“Mr. Stagmar?” asked the girl, with widely open 
eyes. “He is in his study, I believe.” 

She did not go on, but continued to gaze in won- 
dering surprise at the dancer, whose presence she 
could not find a reason for. 

“His study? I do not know where that is. Will you 
please tell me?” Helen was a little imperious now. 
She could not endure the reluctance of her daughter. 

378 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


Without a word Joan Howard turned about and led 
the way down the hall toward the great room wherein 
sat Stagmar, waiting and nerving himself to the task 
before him. The door was flung open suddenly, and 
in the doorway stood the figure of his daughter, with 
some one behind her — Stagmar well knew whom. He 
was rather relieved at this arrangement of affairs. 

“There is some one to see you,” said the supercili- 
ous voice of the girl. 

Stagmar rose at once. “Ah, yes. Come in, Joan; 
you had best be here also. That is right. Kindly 
close the door. ” 

“Surely, Herbert, you are making a mistake,” said 
Helen, after a little pause, while the writer was gath- 
ering breath. “Let me go at once.” 

“Mistakes of that sort I have done with, Helen. 
You are my wife; I owe you protection, just as much 
as to our daughter. Ours has been a strange mar- 
riage. We must become reacquainted now.” 

“Ah! Father!” said Joan, sharply, sinking help- 
lessly into a chair, her eyes fixed upon the woman 
whom she recognized at last. Her father turned 
sternly toward her, but Helen Stagmar spoke again, 
softly. 

“It is not best, Herbert, believe me. Let me go 
again. No one need ever know.” 

The writer looked earnestly at her with heavy 
eyes: “No, Helen, you have come back to me now 
for always. We three are of the same blood. We 
remain together.” 

“Of the same blood — perhaps. Not of the same 
stock. You are — a — gentleman.” 


A SOCIAL LION 


“I am of the people. More than that — I had no 
father, you know. ” 

“It is hard. Very hard for — Joan. How can she 
forgive me?” 

The girl rose hesitatingly here. “Yes, it is hard; 
I confess that. Nevertheless, I must abide by my 
father’s decision. It is my duty.” It was an ungra- 
cious speech, but not ungraciously spoken. At the 
end of it Joan held out both her hands. So, with but 
little emotion on the part of any of the three, the 
matter of a destiny was finally decided. 

Half an hour later luncheon was announced. Mrs. 
Stagmar, dressed in a dark cloth costume of her 
daughter’s which fitted her emaciated form not badly, 
followed the other two into the lofty dining-room with 
drooping head. Somehow this matter was singularly 
unpleasant. It seemed unsuitable. 

The table was arranged for three. Carson had 
been told of a “guest. ” As they entered the room 
Stagmar turned to the butler. 

“Carson,” he remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone, 
“I shall henceforth be very glad to resign my post as 
housekeeper to this lady — my wife, Mrs. Stagmar, 
your mistress.” 

For the first time in his long service as a butler 
Carson was startled out of his imperturbability. He 
looked closely at the tall lady, who smiled and mur- 
mured something very timidly. With some anger 
Stagmar saw the eyes of the man move from Mrs. 
Stagmar to Joan, and then back again. Joan also 
perceived it, and flushed. A moment later Carson 
had straightened, and then was bowing obsequiously; 

380 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


but the servant was master of the meal, and the three 
knew it. They could not force themselves to speak. 
Ah! How the old world makes us pay for righting a 
wrong! 

It was an endless and a forlorn afternoon, one 
always painfully remembered by the three. Stagmar 
wrote, or rather tried his best to keep up a pretense 
of writing. Near him sat his stranger wife, idly. 
She looked with a disagreeable sense of novelty at the 
'somber magnificence about her, feeling no desire 
either to speak or move, but only wishing that she 
s might stop thinking for a time. She wondered a little 
; over the baleful glance from the pale eyes of the yel- 
-low-haired Magdalene above her husband’s desk. 

1 Did he see it as she did, she asked of herself. If so, 
'how could he have it always hanging there above him? 
Now and again Stagmar looked over at her, trying to 
a smile, but failing to awaken any gleam of pleasure in 
31 his eyes. He wrote badly. His story became gro- 
tesque, his motives distorted, his people unnatural, 
D '|his situations impossible. 

: Joan Howard remained by herself in her own room, 

ia a novel in her hand. But she could not read. What 
interest was there in all those foolish people whose 
^stories would surely end in happiness, the real toil of 
%heir existence hidden behind that beautifying veil 
iu vvhich a writer always has power to throw over the 
lugly incidents of his puppet’s lives. Joan’s own 
history held out no promises of a brilliant future now. 
a'The weight of her mother’s history lay heavy on her 
Hbreast. She went over many things that had hap- 
pened to her during this one eventful winter. The 

381 


A SOCIAL LION 


thought of Malcolm came to her, and with it a gen- 
erous gladness that he had escaped from the life 
that must be hers to the sweet, cold, perfect atmos- 
phere of that other woman — a rival no longer. As 
her father had done, Joan painfully acknowledged to 
herself what the presence of Helen in their lives hence- 
forth must mean — social ostracism, absolute and com- 
plete. A life of hopeless, forbidding loneliness lay 
before them all. And would not Helen be the first to 
feel it? 

Even in the midst of her frivolity Joan had learned 
many things during those months through which sh< 
had been feted and courted. She knew well the char 
acteristics of that society which was about her, and tc 
which she was devoted. She knew how pitiless wen 
those iron-bound laws writ in the book of convention 
ality. And she was able calmly to contemplate thei 
certain application to her household, since the sud 
denness of the recent events had left her rather numb 1 
nervously. She could understand, but she did no 
feel. Mother Nature is good to us. She never give !e 
more than one great burden at a time, and when th 
big ones come all the little ones suddenly disappear : 

As for Stagmar, why was it that he was so muc- 1 
less troubled over this thing than was his daughter ; 
Ah! Because he was now rid of his load. The burde > 
of an existence built upon a foundation of secrec 1 * 
and dread had fallen from him. He had becom 1 
himself. Nothing would ever again be so difficuh :c 
But change comes ever hardly to a human minc le 
So Stagmar found it more disturbing than he ha 53 
imagined it could be to have continually near hii'^t 
382 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


ns this shrinking, sad-eyed woman, once his fiery-hearted 
{(wife. She was now like none of the women he knew. 
) S He had become accustomed to those who live contin- 
uously before the world, who sweep through life with 
t<a grand mien, over the feelings of others, with their 
: e heads high and their heavy skirts a-trail, and their 
m voices smilingly monotonous. 

la Helen’s spirit was utterly gone. She was out of 
t place, and she knew it. But in her present position 
she was not even mistress of herself. Her gracious- 
ie ness and her tact availed her nothing. She was afraid 
s j,of the very servants. She did not understand the life 
ia that her husband and her daughter had lived ; there- 
fore she did not desire it. They had chosen for her 
es her course, and she could do nothing but leave it all 
j 01 to them. She was glad to think that she need no 
^longer fear the end — her natural end, of shame, pov- 
erty, possibly starvation. This seemed to her the 
m only pleasant thing in her strange situation. 

D Upon the following morning the Stagmars, with 
; v the rest of a world not their own, read the full 
^account of the fall of Snippington. Two columns it 
^occupied, for the city editor, rejoicing over a com- 
plete “scoop,” had refused to cut a word of Cour- 
tenay’s glaring tale. Stagmar perused it with some 
Jlittle satisfaction. Helen glanced through the cynical 
rf lines with a mighty relief at her heart, and Joan, one 
Q ,of Titus’ followers, learned of it with regretful aston- 
ishment, being unaware, like the rest of her kind, of 
Ithe identity of the woman. Her first impulse was an 
pdea of dropping in at Mrs. Kent’s for a few moments 
That afternoon at tea-time, to raise shocked eyebrows, 

383 


A SOCIAL LION 


and delicately peck a few hitherto unsuspected sin 
of the ci-devant rector’s into sight from beneath his 
now tattered garment of holiness. But alas! Mrs 
Kent’s drawing-room was awful to her now. Already 
it seemed to be a thing of the past. Although noth 
ing was yet known, the thought came to her shudder 
ingly that their names — hers and her father’s — soon 
would figure in headlines as conspicuous as those from 
which Snippington’s stared in capitals. 

But if Joan had the heart to go nowhere, one per- 
son, and that the only one who knew the whole story 
of the Stagmars, came to them. Courtenay’s reputa- 
tion for daring and for risky ventures was already sc : 
great that one more affair, and that only a visit to a : 
family over whom was suspended the social sword of 
Damocles, would make no difference in the number 
of his desirable invitations. He saw all three of : 
them. A position toward Helen which should have < 
been somewhat strained, with Stagmar knowing all i 
that he did, was rendered easy and almost pleasant 
by the fact that on that night of fire Courtenay had I 
been as ready to face Eternity for her as had the ( 
writer, and indeed in the matter of Helen’s own ! 
escape had done as much as the other for the child. 
Somehow that night had put the three upon a footing I 
of equality and friendship, which the presence of Joan ; 
did not dissipate. It was through Courtenay’s own 
recklessly Bohemian nature perhaps that this was 
possible. But the girl, mindful of her last encounter 
with this man, held herself far aloof from his smiling, 
questioning eyes, and barely spoke during his long 
call. 


384 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


The conversation ran only upon impersonal topics, 
yet even this cleared and refreshed the heavy air of 
the household. Carson himself condescended to 
appear less sullenly when he saw the pleasant grace 
with which the new Mrs. Stagmar received this visitor 
of the highest circles. And now for the first time 
Helen looked about her new abode with something 
of pleasure. To Courtenay, her erratic follower, she 
could talk with more ease than to Stagmar himself. 
Robert knew her and understood her perfectly. She 
was in sympathy with him, he with her. When he 
had apparently ended his call, and had risen, after 
bidding the ladies farewell, Stagmar grasped him by 
the arm, and with a significant glance drew him away 
into his study. Courtenay made no protest. He 
seated himself in a comfortable chair and looked up 
at his companion with a kind of expectancy. Stagmar 
did not speak at once, but stood with one elbow upon 
the low mantel, his head on his hand. 

“You’ve made a strong bluff, Herbert,” said Cour- 
tenay at last, “but it’s bound to be a mistake. You 
can’t get it accepted here, Bert. She’s too well 
known, I’m sorry to say.” 

“My dear boy, I didn’t do this thing with any 
hope of ‘bluffing’ anybody. Upon my part it has been 
a long piece of cowardice, leaving her so alone, and I 
know how long and how hard the rectifying of it all 
will be.” Stagmar’s tone was calmly sad. 

“In heaven’s name, Herbert, how did you come to 
do it in the first place?” 

“We were married years and years ago. Long 
before I came to be known, when I was only a year 

385 


A SOCIAL LION 


or so past my majority. There is no ancestry in me, 
you know, Courtenay. We are both of the people.” 

“Up to this time you have been a marvel. If you 
had kept together in the beginning you would have 
been here together now.” 

Stagmar shook his head. ‘‘No, Bob. She was 
not of that sort. She had to have her way. She 
would have died or killed me, I think, if I hadn’t let 
her go. In her way she was a genius, too.” 

‘‘Then why couldn’t she have gone back to the 
stage again? Didn’t she want to?” 

‘‘She said so. She has done her best to turn me 
from my decision, for my own sake, of late. I cannot 
understand the way in which women’s points of view 
change. Can you? She used to hate me with all her 
heart before we separated, I believe. Since then, 
and particularly since the night she was hurt, she has 
saved me from scandal more than once. It was on 
the evening of the fire, just before all of you arrived, 
that she told me she was going back to the stage. 
There was no time for us to talk just then. I went 
out and walked about and thought. The life she was 
leading turned me sick. I’ve never gone in for that 
sort of thing, you know, Bob. I can’t comprehend 
the instinct that leads to it. And I began to realize 
that I owed her something. She is my lawful wife, 
and she was in need of protection, I saw very plainly. 
More than once before she had scouted protection, 
but that was long ago. I had seen the look in her 
eyes, and I knew that she might refuse me in words, 
but that if I took her from it all simply by quiet force, 
she would be grateful at heart. So I’ve brought her 
386 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


home. From a worldly point of view it is idiocy, 
doubtless, but from my outlook it was all that was 
left to do. She is my equal, you know. And now — ” 
Stagmar hesitated a little. 

“Well, now what?” asked Courtenay, watching the 
other closely and with strong interest in his face. 

“Well, just now I’ve got to find out — how soon we 
are all to be cast aside. The three of us go to the 
opera to-night. It is to be ‘Tannhauser,’ and there 
will probably be a dual performance. Second cast, 
Tannhauser, Herbert Stagmar; Venus, Helen How- 
ard; Walter, Mr. Robert Courtenay — you’ll be 
Walter, eh, Bob? The Landgraf — perhaps Jim Kent; 
Wolfram, Malcolm; other knights and ladies, differ- 
ent members of society. How does it go, eh?” 

“The Elizabeth — you have forgotten the most 
important character.” 

“The Elizabeth! Don’t — Bob — oh pshaw! It 
was nothing but a joke. The — the opera wouldn’t go, 
of course — without — the — Elizabeth.” Stagmar had 
turned sharply away. Courtenay looked after him in 
astonishment. What was the matter? Was there 
some one — else? Robert dared not show his curios- 
ity. As Stagmar seemed to have recovered his com- 
posure, the other said, looking at him dubiously: 

“Well, taking the bull by the horns is the bravest 
method. It is barely possible that their feast off 
Snippington has satisfied gossiping society for the 
moment. But — ” 

“ ‘But,’ my dear Bob, you know, as well as I do, 
that it is always ready for a little more dessert.” 
And Stagmar sighed. 


387 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Is there anything that I can do before to-night, 
Herbert?” 

“Thank you, nothing more. I wanted your opin- 
ion of the matter merely. It quite coincides with 
my own. ” 

“Well, then — I must be off. Until to-night — ” 

“You mean to be in at the death?” asked the 
other, taking the offered hand smilingly. 

“At your biggest triumph, I trust, ” said Courtenay, 
with pitiful gallantry, and was gone. 

Joan Howard was thoroughly dismayed when she 
was informed of the projected appearance at the 
opera performance. There was, however, nothing 
to be done but conform to her father’s plan. Before 
she dressed that evening she gave herself a few mo- 
ments of solitude in her own dark room, gathering 
strength as best she might for an ordeal which would 
have shattered all the self-possession of most women. 
But now that this thing must be done, Joan Howard 
was not one to wear a heart upon her sleeve. So for 
her mother she laid out the most beautiful and the 
newest evening gown that her wardrobe held — one 
which she herself had never worn ; and her own cos- 
tume of Nile green satin was marvelously becoming. 

Stagmar, immaculate in his evening dress, con- 
templated his ladies with some curiosity as they 
descended the stairs, his wife a little in advance of 
Joan. They both looked very young, Helen a trifle 
conscious and uneasy, his daughter superbly haughty 
and even superciliously overbearing. Both were 
beautiful. His hands were steady and his heart like 
lead as he wrapped each in her delicate cloak. Car- 
388 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


son, bowing, opened the door, and they passed out to 
the liveried carriage. 

The first act was nearly over, and the house filled 
to overflowing when the small party entered their 
box. Instantly all three were aware that half a hun- 
dred opera-glasses had been leveled at them. Joan 
painfully imagined the remarks and comparisons which 
were being made between her and Helen, who sat lean- 
ing carelessly back, now and then using her fan. Her 
attitude, at least, was perfect. It was true that they 
were causing a little sensation, but everything is not 
known all at once. 

“Who is she?” 

“Possibly some relative, though she isn’t a particle 
like him. ’’ 

“Perhaps an aunt or something of Miss Howard’s. ’’ 

“More likely to be it. They are alike certainly.’’ 

And indeed before the intermission was well begun, 
so catching is an idea, half the house was speculating 
over Stagmar’s new sister-in-law, and the other half — 
the half in dark coats and trousers, was looking a trifle 
conscious, and studiously examining its program. 
Although these men knew no more than their wives 
and sisters of Herbert Stagmar’s relations with La 
Caralita, they at least were all of them sufficiently 
well aware of that lady’s eventful history to be glad 
that a visit to the box in which she sat was not a 
necessity. Two small cigarette men, who had come 
without ladies, sat nodding to each other over their 
collar-tops. 

“By the Lord, Jack! did ye ever see such a bit of 
nerve, eh?’’ 


389 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Most prob’ly she’s got the — what you call it? — 
drop on Bertie, don’t ye know?’’ 

“How’s that? Some hold over him, eh? Case of 
blackmail, you don’t think?’’ 

“N — no. Scarcely, — with him. Dev’lish queer, 
eh, now?’’ 

“Yaas — dev’lish. Ha-h — oh, say! Look there, 

now!’’ 

“By Jove! Jim Kent and Courtenay, as we live! 
Oh, really!’’ 

“Bob’ll do most anything. But Jimmy! I 
should ne — ’’ 

“Look now! Stagmar’s presenting them.’’ 

This was true. Jim Kent, with a face deathly pale, 
but a manner that spoke his determination, had 
entered the box, and after greeting the writer and 
bowing to Joan, stood in an attitude of attentive 
expectancy for Herbert to make the introduction. 
Before this was done, Helen turned. She also was 
very pale, and if Kent had but known it the low sweet- 
ness of her voice was ominous. 

“Good evening, Jim. It seems a long time since 
we have met. Come! Sit down and tell me of your- 
self.’’ 

Her salutation had been all too palpably toward an 
old friend. It would be difficult to hide this now. 
Stagmar bit his lips in anger, but he understood, as 
Kent did not, that it was not stupidity upon the 
part of his wife. It was like Helen to show herself 
hurt in this way. And in a measure she was justified 
in anger. If they were all ashamed to recognize her, 
why had they brought her here, why had the doc- 

390 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


tor come to the box? Certainly the abstruse motives 
of polite people are intolerable to the inhabitants of 
other and kindlier worlds. 

In the box opposite to the Stagmars sat Mrs. 
Kent, Edith, Chatsworth, Miss Felton, and young Van 
Alyn. Mrs. Kent was stiffly upright, a lorgnette held 
tremblingly to her eyes which were fastened upon 
Herbert Stagmar’s box with a total disregard for 
appearances. Edith’s face was scarlet, and she talked 
rapidly and almost senselessly to Malcolm. Mrs. 
Stagmar was now completely absorbed in Kent, and 
Courtenay was left to the mercy of Joan’s fear. Pres- 
ently Stillwell Drew and another society man with 
whom Helen was not acquainted entered the box, 
Drew in complete ignorance of the real state of affairs, 
still jealous of his old rival. Again came an effusive 
welcome from Mrs. Stagmar in the face of the whole 
house. After this there was an awkward pause, the 
other man waiting expectantly. Then Stagmar looked 
up, Kent and Joan watching him fearfully, Courtenay 
humming a bar or two of the “Dir Tonne Lob!’’ For 
the first time in the last ten minutes Stagmar spoke, 
“Helen, permit me to present Mr. Graeme — my wife, 
Mrs. Stagmar, Mr. Graeme.’’ 

Stillwell Drew turned ashy white. Kent coughed 
in despair. Graeme bowed and Helen, with her 
great, dark eyes, smiled somewhat pathetically. 
Stagmar, sitting nonchalantly upon the rail of the 
box, was now facing a future. Helplessly, as if to 
thrust away some much-dreaded misfortune, Joan 
Howard had put out one white-gloved hand. This 
hand, Robert Courtenay, with a strange gleam in 
39i 


A SOCIAL LION 


his eyes, impulsively caught, unnoticed by the rest, 
in his own. Joan drew it away, but Courtenay had 
felt her tremor of emotion, and was satisfied. The 
house darkened once more, and the curtain rose. 
Hastily the four men left the box, to enter it no more. 
How the gay music that followed dinned into the ears 
of the three left alone! How the blasts from the 
trumpets and the high triumphant notes of that swing- 
ing march stabbed through their melancholy! It was 
an hour the agony of which none of them ever forgot. 
But at least they were less noticed now, on account 
of the brilliancy of the stage picture. Nevertheless, 
there were not a few who neglected the maiden sacri- 
fice of Elizabeth and the uncomfortable postures of 
the motley chorus, to speak in low tones to one 
another of the social tumult which was stirring, and 
which would doubtless prove, before the evening’s 
end, something more interesting to watch than the 
troubles of these far-off, mellow-voiced actors. 

All who could be supposed to be at all interested 
in the matter — and these were most of the people in 
the house — were aware by this time of nearly all that 
there was to know about the guest who sat in Herbert 
Stagmar’s box. Young Garth — who still retained the 
memory of the wine-deluge — was responsible for the 
beginning of it. He, appearing to sympathize with 
Mrs. Kent’s curiosity concerning the doctor’s un- 
known acquaintance, had detailed La Caralita’s his- 
tory, as much as he knew of it, and something more, 
rapidly and spicily, to that lady during the last two 
minutes of the intermission. Still, Garth knew noth- 
ing of Helen’s newly proclaimed wifehood. All that 

392 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 


he could do was to ignite within Mrs. Kent two 
fires — one of curiosity to learn more of this woman; 
and the second, wrath against her husband for knowing 
her. From the tale-bearer, though not from Eleanor 
Felton, she concealed these thoughts, only dismissing 
him from the box with an indifferent and indulging 
smile. 

Garth flitted airily away, and the second act had 
just begun by the time Kent returned to his place. 
Mrs. Kent, sitting slightly in front of her daughter, 
turned immediately toward the doctor. “My dear 
James, who is the very beautiful woman in Mr. Stag- 
mar’s box, with whom you have just been speak- 
ing?’’ 

Kent glared at her wearily. “Who is it? It is 
Mrs. Herbert Stagmar, that’s all,” he replied, gruffly. 

Mrs. Kent gave a violent gasp, as though a quart 
of iced water had been suddenly dropped over her 
elaborate coiffeur. “James! What do you mean! 
That creature — ” 

“I mean precisely that. La Caralita, the dancer 
of the Moulin Rouge, is Bertie Stagmar’s wife. Con- 
found him!’’ And the little man mopped his brow 
with a gesture of despair. What was the use in de- 
fending the writer now? 

Mrs. Kent had no time to answer. On hearing 
her father’s last speech Edith Kent had suddenly half 
risen to her feet, then, reeling, was caught in Mal- 
colm Van Alyn’s arms. She had fainted. 

It was several minutes before she regained con- 
i sciousness, and as soon as she was again herself, the 
doctor insisted upon her being taken home. Mrs. 

393 




A SOCIAL LION 


Kent made no objections, but followed the three 
others, for Malcolm went also, out of the foyer. 
To herself she was saying, harshly, “It may have 
been the heat, but really the coincidence was a little 
too striking. ” 

Poor Edith! 

Thus Eleanor Felton and the artist were left un- 
ceremoniously alone to finish the evening and rumi- 
nate upon the sudden shock to society. The artist was 
rather glum over the matter. 

“This will certainly knock down the last fad for 
genius, Miss Felton. Mrs. Kent will cut me to-mor- 
row. No egotism intended, I assure you. Think of 
it! First Snippington — and now — Stagmar! I could 
never have believed such a thing of Herbert.” 

“It’s not by any means so bad as you think,” 
began Eleanor, vigorously, and then stopped short. 
She had forgotten her position in the matter. Alas! 
Eleanor Felton, too, had turned coward. She dared 
not admit that what all the world shrank from now 
she herself had excused long ago! No. Society had 
educated Eleanor Felton. Do not blame her. Horace 
had looked up eagerly at her words, and she had 
deliberately put him off. It was over now. 

During the middle of the intermission Horace rose. 
“Miss Felton, Stagmar is alone with the ladies. Here 
comes Courtenay to see you. Will you excuse me for 
a few moments while I go to them?” 

Eleanor hesitated. “Why go, Horace?” she asked 
at last. “You have a good deal at stake — your repu- 
tation—” 

“This from you, Miss Felton! I had not thought 
394 


MRS. HERBERT STAGMAR 

J 

e it. Herbert Stagmar was my father’s friend, and he 
has been mine. Au revoir." 

8 And Eleanor’s conscience hurt her painfully as she 
e saw him go. She knew very well that her own place 
would have been noblest at his side. Again, she 
dared not. 

>' Poor Eleanor. 

14 That night ended, as he had known it would, Her- 
- bert Stagmar’s social career. He and all his house- 
hold were under the ban, a ban far more to be dreaded 
): by a member of society than had been papal excom- 
munication in a Catholic country. It meant loneli- 
): ness terrible, desolation forlorn, isolation entire, 
d ostracism complete. And so far as I know, not a 
single pitying voice out of all the myriad former 
sycophants who had surrounded Stagmar, was raised 
1 in his defense. Perhaps only one there was, and that 
j a woman, defenseless, who even wished to speak; 
( she was the bride-elect of Malcolm Van Alyn. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A WEDDING HOUR 

“Are these the last, Edith? Very well. The last 
fifty are here, Miss Allison. It will not take you 
an hour more. Almost too many, I think, as it is. 
Eight hundred for the church and three for the house. 
Now, really, I must lie down for a little. This has 
been such exacting work, and there is the Prestwell’s 
dinner to-night. You will remain until it is finished, 
Edith.” 

So spake Mrs. Kent as she rose from the chair in 
her dressing-room, where she had for the last two 
hours been overseeing the directing of the last invita- 
tions for Edith’s approaching marriage. It is a great 
task, indeed, nowadays, the sending forth to one’s 
eight or nine hundred acquaintances all the announce- 
ments, cards, for church and home, and the rest of 
the paraphernalia by means of which we think it 
fit to make known that a child of ours is about to be 
joined in holy matrimony to the man she — may love. 

To the great satisfaction of her mother, her fiance 
and his family, Edith had at last consented to set 
the date for her wedding. Why should she not? she 
asked herself bitterly. Malcolm was a good boy, and 
would do anything in the world for her except release 
her, now that they had at last come together again. 

396 


A WEDDING HOUR 


She was sure that he would be very kind to her, and 
under his golden fetter felt that she would have 
more freedom both of body and spirit than under tft* 
mother’s iron yoke. Well and good, so far as it goes. 
And if we go further, it must be without Edith herself. 
Though the wound is an ugly one, and will not soon 
heal, none the less she steadfastly denies the existence 
in her heart of the hole where a name which was 
: graven there has been cut out. The name was that 
1 of a man which, alas! was now but seldom spoken, 
but was once famous and unimpeachable in honor. 
And whatever the fever of the girl’s hurt, she never 
5 outwardly betrayed her pain. Her docility about her 
5 wedding since that opera night had entirely dispelled 
) any suspicions that Mrs. Kent had secretly enter- 
tained over her daughter’s unlucky fainting spell. So 
a upon this score Edith was happily let alone. But 

0 despite all the girl’s effort at control, the thought of 

• that name, the name of Herbert Stagmar, became 

1 sometimes so unendurable to her that at last she had 
s in self-pity asked that the ceremony which should 

• give her to Van Alyn might be soon performed. 

if Fortunately Edith Kent had never permitted herself 
1 to hope that she might enjoy the peace of a small, 
e sacred marriage ceremony. Therefore the exhibition 
: now being arranged for her did not much disturb her 

• equanimity. She had become indifferent about it, 
it having long been resigned to her mother’s disposition, 
■f Though she and her father sometimes made common 
d cause of ideas in secret, these always melted and van- 
ie ished away into thin air before the straightly proper 
l complacency of the wife and mother. Mrs. Kent 

397 


A SOCIAL LION 


forced her intentions well into her family’s minds. 
Edith daily haunted shops and odd tucked-away 
corners of storedom where laces and fine linens lay 
hid. And she consented without a murmur to remain 
for hours upon her feet while the long court train 
of her wedding dress was draped into exact shim- 
mering folds, and the scroll-work of pearl flowers laid 
upon her dress, and the two yellow roses which were 
to be embroidered in a corner of the train were care- 
fully marked out. Then again the plans for their city 
establishment were made and discussed, and these 
Edith resisted with all the force of her will. She 
hated the city, she said, and declared that not for a 
time, at least, would she live there. 

“I want to travel — to wander about, to pass the 
days in new places; to see where unhappy, famous peo- 
ple have lived and died,” she repeated over and over 
again to her lover, until Malcolm was won completely 
to her way of thinking, and Mrs. Kent was for the 
time defeated. 

Upon the night when the last envelope had been 
mailed, when finally all the invitations were gone, the 
doctor’s last sarcasm vouchsafed, unheeded, and Mrs. 
Kent’s last sigh of complacency given, Edith crept up 
to her bedroom with face pale and all her nerves alive. 
Her maid was there, ready to prepare her for the 
night. Edith dismissed her uneasily, and waited, 
standing in the middle of the room, till the girl 
had gone. Then, crossing hastily to her desk, she 
sat down before it, and began to look through her 
drawers, scanning the sheets of note and writing- 
paper eagerly. It was a foolish thing. Upon every! 

398 


A WEDDING HOUR 


one was her monogram and address, on each envelope 
the family crest — oh, democratic America! She had 
no plain paper, yet she needed it. Presently she rang, 
and waited impatiently for the appearance of her 
maid. 

“Julie, have you any writing-paper?” 

“Why, yes, Miss Edith.” 

“Has it any mark on it? Your initials, perhaps?” 

“No, Miss Edith.” 

“Julie, I am very much in need of such a sheet of 
paper, and envelope. Will you — will you give one of 
yours to me?” 

“Shall I get it for you now?” asked the girl, with- 
out a sign of surprise or curiosity in her pleasant face. 

“Thank you — if you will, please.” 

In three minutes there lay before Edith on her 
desk a large square white envelope and two sheets of 
oily white paper which did not match their destined 
wrapper. Scarcely an aristocratic outfit! Edith 
thanked the girl gratefully, and a moment later was 
alone. 

It took her a long while to write her letter, yet the 
epistle was short. It covered little more than one side 
of one of the ruled sheets. When it was done she did 
not read it over — not daring to think too much of the 
few full sentences it contained. She slipped it imme- 
diately into the envelope, together with a card of 
entrance to the church. Then she sealed it fast, and 
wrote upon it outside the name and address of her 
haunting shadow. Her heart was lighter. The past 
was closed. None the less her white hands still trem- 
bled as she unbound by herself the heavy locks of yel- 

399 


A SOCIAL LION 


low hair. The pain of parting is not always sweet. 1 
But before she lay in bed that night her little maid s 
had stolen from the house and dropped into the neigh- 1 
boring letter-box that last message of hers to her i 
prostrate god. 

When his morning mail reached him Stagmar was i 
at luncheon with his wife. This meal was no longer 
served by Carson, the magnificent. He was gone to 
find a place where his penchant for the highest and 
best (?) would serve him in better stead than in this i 
gloomy and deserted household. Helen had felt 1 
extreme relief when she learned that she was to be no 
longer exposed to the scorn of his haughty glance, 
and she was vastly easier now before the observance 
of the quiet little waitress who had succeeded his 
highness. Meals were still not pleasant things, for 
the emptiness of the house and their lives oppressed 
all three; and indeed Joan but rarely came to the 
table, preferring to remain in the accustomed quiet 
of her father’s study, which his spirit dominated still. 
To Helen, then, as they sat alone together, it was 
Stagmar’s custom, as it had been in an earlier 
day, to read aloud portions of his mail which might 
amuse his wife. There were still endless requests for 
autographs from the author, many of them supremely 
ridiculous. And there were demands for photographs 
from distantly worshiping maidens, and all the usual 
penalties which one must pay for fame and a striking 
face. 

The author was entirely unfamiliar with Miss 
Kent’s writing, and the paper which bore it would, in 
any case, have concealed its identity. He opened it 
400 


A WEDDING HOUR 


with the rest, and began to read. After the first 
simple words he stopped short, and turning over the 
P a g e , glanced at the signature. The flush which 
mounted his cheek and the gleam which shot from 
his eyes at sight of it were both noted by his wife, 
into whose heart entered a jealous fear. 

“Never mind that one, Herbert,” she said lightly. 
“Read me something less serious.” 

He glanced over at her quickly, and for one brief 
moment their eyes met. Then she went on again with 
her salad, and he laid the missive down beside him on 
the table. He did not read it till he was alone, and 
then he devoured it hungrily, slowly, eagerly. 

If not so much in words, at least in expression, 
Edith had told her heart to him. He read and under- 
stood it all, as she had thought he would. The letter 
had been but an impulse on her part, and as such he 
treated it with the highest respect, and an unutter- 
able, silent grief. Delicately he handled the paper, 
yet studied each firm, straight stroke of the fine pen. 
Finally, taking it very carefully, he cut off the signa- 
ture at the bottom, and one other name which the 
letter contained, and burned them together in the fire 
on his hearth. After that he folded the paper and 
thrust the short, precious note into the breast pocket 
of his old brown suit. He had made it safe; now it 
might become his talisman. 

Helen Howard also had thought about this letter 
which he had notread aloud; had thought >bout it 
more than he could have guessed. But Helen’s heart 
was straight, and her pity for the unhappiness of her 
husband, which she saw was far greater than her own, 

401 


A SOCIAL LION 


in their strange position, made her willing to bear 
much, silently, rather than feel that he might have the 
right to reproach her for making his lot harder than 
it already was. And Stagmar was not unaware of 
many instances of her unselfishness. Upon every 
occasion he treated her with more than respect, with 
great consideration. But this was all. He could not 
force himself to love her again. That love was dead, 
he thought; and he had no power to work miracles. 
Ah! a wretched tangle, this marriage! Could the 
acknowledgment of it have been, after all, a mis- 
take? Nay, it was done. What more can be said? 

The Stagmars were not asked to the Kent-Van-Alyn 
wedding, of course. No one had for a moment 
thought they would be, least of all the Stagmars 
themselves. Joan was not surprised; nevertheless, 
she was hurt. One does not get used to cuts all in a 
day or two. Sometimes she thought of Malcolm, and 
wondered what would have happened had she not her- 
self broken her engagement to him. Malcolm, like 
most of the others, knew her no longer. Edith Kent 
still bowed slightly, but without a smile; and Mrs. 
Kent seemed to have developed a positive genius for 
looking through, over, and under her without seeing 
her, as though she were a bit of window-glass sus- 
pended in space. Jim Kent had once visited their 
house, but his furtiveness about it put Stagmar on his 
mettle, and he quietly told him not to come again, 
which advice the doctor regretfully obeyed. Horace 
Chatsworth was at the house early and late, and his 
visits and the unfailing attendance of Robert Cour- 
tenay were the only solaces left to the forlorn trio. 

402 


A WEDDING HOUR 


By Easter-tide the silence in the great house was 
become nearly unbearable. 

It was on a Wednesday evening in the second 
week in April that Edith became Mrs. Van Alyn. 
In the evening at eight the ceremony was to take 
place, and on the following day the two young people 
were to leave their city for a world-round voyage. 
All day long, upon her last maiden morning, Edith 
moved about the familiar places in a dreary dream. 
She could not think of what lay before her, of this 
one evening and then the days to come, the many, 
many years of days to come. It was not till Malcolm 
came cheerily in to see her in the late afternoon that 
she could smile. Then, suddenly, a moment of glad- 
ness was given her. He was so young, so boyish, 
so buoyant, so innocently jolly that she felt at once 
easy with him. 

Oh! It is well for men that the impresses of some 
moments do not forever seam the open hearts of these 
clear-eyed boys; that their breath does not forever 
reek with the vile decoctions drunk so frequently; 
that eyes are not always feverishly blood-shot, hav- 
ing once been so; that hands, after some hours’ rest, 
can be no longer tremblingly cold and clutching as at 
the cards which will not win the little heaps of red 
and blue disks that litter the dark green table. Tem- 
poral mores! Are you really worse at one epoch 
than another? 

But to Edith Kent Malcolm had always been the 
same. He was still to her the playfellow, brother, 
comrade that he had always been. How, then, to 
regard him as a husband? But better he than any 

4°3 


A SOCIAL LION 


one else, whom she did not love — and Edith shud- 
dered as she thought. Malcolm anxiously regarded 
her. 

“You don’t look a bit well,’’ he said. 

“Oh, I am!’’ she replied, smilingly. “But I am 
nervous. Now confess that you are a little bit so 
yourself. ’’ 

“Not a whit,’’ he insisted stoutly. “Besides, you 
seem to have forgotten the last rehearsal that is to 
save us all. I came to get you for it now. Come, 
we must go down.’’ 

“To be sure. Papa is going with us. I’ll get him 
and be here directly.’’ 

The rehearsal of arrangements was very tiresome. 
It was gone over a dozen times, and it seemed to 
Edith that no one even tried to understand what was 
to be done. She forgot that to the lively bridesmaids 
and groomsmen this was merely an occasion for 
immense frivolity, flirtation, and general amusement. 
She could not see why they all enjoyed it. They in 
turn wondered at her listlessness, and Malcolm 
regarded her with troubled eyes. Only her father 
seemed to understand her, 'and his old arm trembled 
as he conducted her down the aisle and gave her 
away again and again. It was an intense relief when 
she was at home for the last hours. The last hours! 
With each tick of the clock in her room her heart 
throbbed painfully. She was rejoiced to think that 
no decorous dinner could be gone through with to- 
night, for the house was in confusion with prepara- 
tions for the immense reception to follow the wed- * 
ding. The caterers had long since arrived, the 
4°4 


A WEDDING HOUR 


servants were busily at work, Mrs. Kent was in tears 
of nervousness, the doctor heavy-hearted and quietly 
authoritative; and now had come the time for Edith 
to be dressed. It was a long ordeal, which she 
endured with passive dullness. After two long hours 
under the hands of maids and hair-dressers, she was 
finished; the long court train, with its fastenings of 
pearl butterflies, upon her shoulders; the stars, also 
of those softly-tinted jewels, upon the point-lace 
about her white throat; the long pearl chain from 
Malcolm about her neck; her glove-finger slit; her 
veil, with its spray of lilies-of-the-valley, adjusted; 
her bouquet of ascension lilies ready. 

“And now,” she said, in a low, broken voice, 
“leave me alone for fifteen minutes. I must have 
that!” 

Quietly, almost with reverence, the little group left 
her room. Their torturing tasks were over. Edith 
breathed deeply once, and flung her hands above her 
head. Simultaneously there came a timid rap at the 
door. She opened it impatiently. Upon the threshold 
stood Julie with a box in her hands, a jewel box of 
pale velvet. 

“I beg pardon, Miss Edith. A present, marked 
‘personal.’ ’’ 

Mechanically the bride took it into her hands and 
flung open the cover. Upon a card within were writ- 
ten the words, “For To-night, from A Memory.” 
That was all. There was no name. 

There, upon the satin lining, lay a wreathy crown 
of forget-me-nots in turquoises. Tiny pearls formed 
the centers of the flowers, and the leaves were of deli- 
405 


A SOCIAL LION 


cately quivering gold. The girl gave a tremulous cry. 
Well she knew who had sent it. Taking the box to 
the table before her mirror, she stood for a few mo- 
ments examining the fastening of her veil. Then 
rapidly she took the flowers from her head, and with 
shaking hands placed the fairy-like thing in its place. 
It gave the last touch to her costume. Clasping her 
hands before her she stood still, as though gazing at 
herself; but the image that she saw was blurred and 
indistinct, for her eyes, as well as her heart, were full. 
These last moments of her own were not what she 
had intended them to be. Her mind was not on her- 
self, but another, and as she 'thought of him the lights 
grew dim, the room whirled mistily about her, the 
world jangled in her ears. 

Then a timid rap came at the door, and Julie’s 
voice without said: “Miss Edith! shall I come in? 
The carriage is here!” Edith Kent had slipped to 
her knees on the floor, with her satin garments trail- 
ing about her. She pressed her cold hands unsteadily 
against her throbbing temples. Then slowly she rose 
and drew her train over her arm. Some one threw 
her white cloak over her. She heard her mother raise 
her voice in tones of affected rapture: 

“Ah, what a dear boy Malcolm is! A magnificent 
wreath, my dear! What devotion to you! It is 
charming!” 

And Edith smiled vaguely, and went to her father, 
little Doctor Jim. She had bidden farewell to her 
girlhood. She was ready. 

By eight o’clock the church was crowded, and the 
ushers were anxiously wondering where it would be 
406 


A WEDDING HOUR 


possible to stow away any more important old ladies 
who would be sure to require a good seat. The long 
rows of candles before the altar burned brilliantly. 
Within as well as without it was very warm, and a 
myriad of pale fans were fluttering. The white-robed 
choir-boys took their places promptly. From the 
organ came indistinct, ^Eolian music, and in a dark- 
ened room, in a lonely house not far away, a man sat 
before a desk, and with his eyes closed and his strong 
face set in hard lines of mental pain, pictured to him- 
self, with imagination fevered, this sanctified scene. 
Herbert Stagmar had not obeyed her last request 
of him. 

At a quarter after eight the bridal party formed 
outside the door of the central aisle. Within the 
body of the church came the first low strains of the 
Lohengrin march, which brought the buzz of conver- 
sation to an end. The heavy doors were thrown 
open, the little procession entered, and passed slowly 
| up the aisle, Edith leaning so heavily upon her 
father’s arm that he looked down at her in anxious 
surprise once or twice. But it was an agony to her to 
walk. She saw not one of the throng of friends who 
rose simultaneously at her royal approach. She was 
so tall, so pale, so tearless, so like the lilies that rose 
from her hand! The one eager thought within her 
mind was to reach the altar quickly and have it over. 
She knew that Herbert Stagmar was not there. One 
swift, embracing glance had told her that. He had 
not done for her what she had asked. Ah! Would 
this fearful march never end? 

They had reached the steps which led up into the 
407 


A SOCIAL LION 


chancel. Bishop Cleering and two assistants met the 
bridal party, and Edith was looking into Malcolm’s 
pale face and brilliant eyes. All feeling had left her 
now. Mechanically she heard the service proceed. 
When he gave her away her father’s hand was cold, j 
but Malcolm’s was hot and held hers firmly clasped. 
Her responses were steadily given. She repeated the 
bishop’s words in a clear, cold voice that long 
remained with those who heard it. They ascended 
into the chancel, followed by the maid of honor and 
best man, and there they knelt before the altar of 
God. The church was absolutely still save for the 
sound of the bishop’s prayer. The congregation rev- 
erently stood while the young couple knelt. Only in 
another place, at the same moment, the man who had 
been dreaming of these two who were being joined 
together, had, with them, stumbled suddenly to his 
knees in the darkness, although he, Herbert Stagmar, 
knew no God. 

A mighty burst of music from the organ, the har- 
monious rising of the chorus of boys’ voices, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Malcolm Van Alyn were moving up the aisle. 
Edith looked very stately and quietly calm, people 
thought. There was a little brightness now to her 
eyes, and no one perceived how with one gloved hand 
she was nervously rubbing the finger on the other 
which was bound about with the little golden band of 
her servitude. 

The reception was a magnificent affair. The pres- 
ents, it was said, were more numerous and more beau- 
tiful than had ever before been seen at any wedding 
in the city. Only one little episode disturbed the 

408 


A WEDDING HOUR 


.( entire peace of Mrs. Kent’s complacent mind. As 
soon as her new-found son-in-law appeared in the 
[I rooms she took him effusively on one side and 
began to praise him for his last bit of devotion to 
his bride. Upon his polite question as to what that 
had been, she pointed rapturously to the forget-me-not 
crown upon Edith’s fair head, “Only a young hus- 
; band could have designed anything so entirely 
j charming!’’ 

j “But,’’ interrupted Malcolm, “I was just wonder- 
[ ing myself where she got it.’’ Then, after a pause, 
e he asked, “Did she say that I gave it to her?’’ 

“Why, yes,’’ responded Mrs. Kent, unhesitatingly. 

D “She certainly did.’’ 

j Malcolm looked puzzled. “Edith!’’ he called, and 
j Edith came to him at once. “Edith — ’’ and he hesi- 
s tated. 

“Edith,’’ broke in Mrs. Kent, instantly, “didn’t 
you tell me that it was Malcolm who sent you the 
, wreath you are wearing?’’ 

“No, mamma.’’ Then seeing the anger in her 
mother’s face she turned at once to her husband. 

I “Mamma took it for granted that it was you who sent 
r it, and I answered neither one way nor the other.’’ 
j Mrs. Kent, with contradiction in her eye, was 
r about to speak again, when the doctor, who had also 
I come up, joined in the talk: 

“Edith is right enough, Malcolm; that is precisely 
what occurred.’’ 

“Well, then,’’ cried Mrs. Kent, with a grain of tri- 
r! umph at least, “who did send it to you?’’ 
j “Pardon me,’’ said Edith, quietly, “but I am not 

409 




A SOCIAL LION 


at liberty to tell you that. It is a very old and a very 
dear friend; that is all. I must ask you to leave the 
matter there. ” 

And that was all that she would ever say. To give 
him his just credit, Malcolm himself did not again 
refer to it. The costly crown in its pale casket 
had fulfilled its mission. It had lain upon her head 
during her marriage, and she never wore it again. 
By the time that Edith Van Alyn had become old and 
wise enough to be taken away from earth, her husband 
had become all in all to her, and the memory of that 
youthful, romantic pain had grown dim. The very 
name of the Herbert Stagmar she had known rarely 
came to her mind, and he was, in after years, only 
the man who had written that long row of well-bound 
books which filled a shelf in her library near the one 
on which stood the kindred novels of Thackeray, and 
Balzac, and George Eliot. 


410 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THREE BECOME TWO 

Two days after Edith’s wedding Robert Courtenay 
and Joan Howard sat together and alone in the little 
Turkish den. They no longer resorted to the great 
empty drawing-room which fronted lonesomely upon 
the avenue. In these days it was too large, and 
dreary, and silent. But here, in the brilliant little 
Oriental corner, the constraint, despite the memory 
of that first encounter between them which had taken 
place here, was entirely obliterated from their inter- 
course. Now a tiny coffee service stood before the 
girl on a little stand, and the cups were still empty, 
for Courtenay had not been there long. An unlit 
Turkish cigarette was between his fingers as he lay 
comfortably back in an arm-chair, a thing somewhat 
unsuited to the idea of the room. Joan faced him, 
with a small cushioned divan, upon which she was 
reclining carelessly. Nowadays they were again at 
ease with each other. That silence which is the most 
thorough proof of understanding and sympathy was 
unbroken for some minutes; then Robert straight- 
ened a little. 

“Will you have coffee?” asked Joan. 

“Thank you, no; not yet.” 

The voice of each had slightly roused the other. 

4 11 


A SOCIAL LION 


Courtenay unclosed his eyes and looked questioningly 
at his companion. “Mrs. Stagmar at home?” 

“She and my father are driving together.” 

“Driving together! Then it is settled that — ” 

“Oh, quite. Surely, you never had hoped that my 
father would abandon his resolve?” 

Courtenay smiled at her lazily. “For my sake, I 
am glad,” he said, enigmatically. 

Joan looked at him. “I understand. You like to 
exercise your strain of Bohemianism on us now,” she 
said, with something like bitterness in her voice. 
This he instantly understood. 

“Oh, no; I didn’t mean it in that way.” 

“Oh, but you did, you know. However, it may 
pass. But do you never go among any but entirely 
conventional people?” 

The man flushed a little and laughed. “Never 
mind what you fancied I meant. I have forgotten 
what we are talking about.” 

“You meant, did you not,” she calmly persisted, 
“that it was pleasant to be able to lead one on who — 
who — is no longer of any importance in your world?” 

He looked at her piercingly. “All men are fools. 
Did you know that, Joan?” 

“Yes, Mr. Courtenay.” 

Again he laughed. “Could you not — a — stretch 
a point and call me Robert, or, even more comfort- 
ably, Bob? When we are alone, of course,” he 
added. 

“No, I think not. I am afraid that I should hardly 
be elastic enough. I might not fly back into the last 
name when we should not be alone.” 


THREE BECOME TWO 


“Then I must call you Miss Howard, as you once 
advised me to, I suppose?” 

“Upon what occasion was that?” she asked, indif- 
ferently. “I have forgotten it. I do not mind your 
calling me Joan. It is quite what one might expect 
from any one so much older than I. You are really 
a friend of the family, you know.” 

Courtenay did not answer. Joan perceived in- 
stinctively that he was as angry as she had tried to 
make him, though the calm nonchalance of his man- 
ner betrayed no feeling. Now ensued a period of 
silence so long, so unusual, so unbreakable, that Miss 
Howard at length considered the propriety of taking 
up a book. It was perhaps half an hour before Robert 
stood up, looking singularly pale. Before he spoke 
he grasped a cup, and pouring into it some of the 
: thick, cold Turkish coffee, drained it at a swallow. 

1 Then going to her, he looked straight into her passive 
face. 

> “Joan,” in a very low voice, “Joan, I love you, 
' dearly, deeply. Will you be my wife?” 

Joan looked up at him calmly. “Really, Mr. 

1 Courtenay, do you imagine me so great a fool as all 
this?” 

“How can you! No, I understand it. I only 
h repeat to you again that you — you are dearer to me 
r than anything on God’s earth. I love you. Will you 
e be my wife?” 

Even then it was hard for her to believe his earn- 
) estness. Long and closely she scanned his steady, 
earnest face. At last, with a sudden flush of scarlet, 
she whispered unsteadily, “You don’t realize — ” 

413 


A SOCIAL LION 


“Yes, I realize. What else?” he questioned, im- 
patiently. 

After a second, then, Joan threw up her heavy 
head and looked into his eyes, with a deep, quivering 
breath. Her words came in a torrent — passionate, 
expressionless. “Yes! yes! yes! I will marry you! 
But not all for love. I want to be taken away, away 
from this fearful loneliness. See what my father and 
mother did. When I did not ask it, they gave me 
everything, everything in the world. Then, when I 
felt that I could never be without it, they took it all 
away again — ay, worse than all. I am left utterly 
desolate. I adore you — I have done so since the first 
time I ever saw you. But you must take me away to 
be married. We must never come back. Nobody 
must know. Will you do this?” 

With a smile at her vehemence, he held out his 
hand, and with a little quick breath she took it. “Do 
you realize that you are planning an elopement?” he 
asked, looking down at her with lovelight in his 
eyes. 

“Call it what you like. Oh, Robert, it is asking 
too much of you! I didn’t think of it — of your posi- 
tion here.” 

“Then don’t think of it now. It is less than noth- 
ing to me. I must merely part with Williams; and, 
since I get you in exchange, I am longing for him to 
go immediately.” He was laughing now, but she was 
very serious. 

“You are doing everything — for me.” 

* “And when do you want to start? Soon, is it 
not?” He drew her again to the divan, and sat down 
4H 


THREE BECOME TWO 

by her. She was doing her best to calm her excite- 
ment, and his calmness helped her. 

“Soon? Oh, yes. To-night — is that possible?” 

“Hardly to-night, I’m afraid. You see it is nearly 
six now. But to-morrow night, if you can be ready.” 

“Oh, by to-morrow, surely. I cannot take very 
much, and, you see — I have so little — money — ” 
Her face flushed again as she whispered these last 
words. 

“ ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow!’ ” he 
answered ^her, smiling dreamily. He felt himself as 
in a dream, for he was thinking of his first courtship — 
the cold question, the calm affirmative reply, and the 
pleasant reflection that his wife would always have 
more than enough to keep herself upon. He had 
never felt toward Marie anything warmer than ap- 
proving indifference. And now, with Joan, everything 
was precisely the opposite. It was a thought of 
exquisite joy that this beautiful girl before him 
would have to look to him for everything she should 
possess in the world. For her he gave up everything 
also. His position, his habits, his . pleasures, would 
all be swept away from him, and only she should take 
their place. Visions of a nomadic Bohemian existence 
rose up before him. She should be beside him. He 
was satisfied. 

“We shall wander, dear. The wide earth and 
oblivion to all mankind lie before us. Which shall it 
be first? Europe or Asia?” 

“Neither, Robert.” And now the tears were in 
Joan’s gray eyes. “First of all to the valley of San 
Gabriel, where I lived for so long, and where I used 
4i5 


A SOCIAL LION 


to dream of you, long before I saw you. After that 
wherever you please.” 

Half an hour later, Joan stole off to her room alone, 
while the voices of her father and mother sounded in 
the hall below. Courtenay was gone, but oh, for so 
short a time! She was too happy to see any one just 
yet. Humbly she knelt at the foot of her long unused 
Madonna shrine, but the words that came from her 
lips were neither aves nor paternosters, yet perhaps 
on high more sanctified than either. 

Meantime Herbert Stagmar was drawing the cloak 
from his wife’s shoulders and speaking with her in a 
most punctilious tone. He was always studiously 
polite, but never anything more. In vain he had 
striven to feel his real relationship with her. He 
failed signally. Helen had felt it, and taken it to 
heart. She could find no good in this arrange- 
ment. By it he had lost his position, she her some- 
what wretched freedom, and both of them were 
seriously uncomfortable when together. So, when he 
had this time, as usual, removed her wrap, and she 
was busy with a small, flowery bonnet, she turned to 
him rather sharply: 

“Now go on to your own work or pleasure, or 
whatever you have to do. By this time I can find my 
way to the room which you have given me. As a 
matter of fact, my dear Herbert, I am not the ex- 
Empress of France, nor yet a feminine burglar who 
has come to pay you a visit.” 

He laughed slightly, and then turned serious 
again. “I am sorry that I do not put you at your 
ease,” he said. 

416 


THREE BECOME TWO 


“Oh, I do not blame you. You have lived so long 
here without me that it is not possible now for you to 
look upon me as a wife. But please remember that I 
didn’t come back of my own accord. Great heavens, 
Herbert! Do you imagine that I haven’t given up 
something also, in coming here to live in idle comfort? 
Don’t you know that I loved that other life where I 
was free — as the air we breathe?’’ 

“ Were you free, Helen?” he questioned kindly, 
drawing her with him into his study, and closing the 
door. 

“Yes, I was free. I lived in my own way, and the 
time that I gave to others was given because I wished 
it. Here there are no others. You are very lonely. 
I suppose that it is my coming here which has made 
it so. I’m sorry, but it is not my fault. Oh, Her- 
bert! if only you were poor!” 

“Poor? Why?” 

“Because then I should heip to earn our living — 
yours, and Joan’s, and mine. I could easily command 
higher pay than any dancer before the public. Why, 
Herbert, in my way I am famous.” 

“I know,” he said, sternly. “And I thank God 
that we have more than enough money to live upon. 
I could not have you make a public spectacle of your- 
self again. As for me, it seems that I can write no 
longer. Oh, if you could but see the trash that has 
come from my pen in the last two weeks! It is too 
wretched to be believed, Helen. My worth is over, I 
think. Heretofore my life has been careless enough 
to enable me to give all my brain to my pen. It is 
different now.” He became heartless and forgetful 


417 




A SOCIAL LION 

of her. “My existence was perfect in those days. It 
was as untroubled as — the depths of a tropical jungle. 
I studied art, life, happiness, misery from a vantage- 
ground which I myself had created, and the world 
bowed before me. Ten months ago my whole orbit 
of being was clear, straight, light. My life was flaw- 
less. ” 

“You lie!” she cried out suddenly, stamping her 
foot. “You life was lived among a low class, and it 
was not perfect. You yourself did not sin. You were 
too sensitive for that. But the men all about you, 
with whom you lived, did sin, and you knew it. You 
knew that at heart they were vile and low, but be- 
cause their bodies were clean and their clothes spot- 
less, you shut your inner eyes and smiled at them and 
grasped their hands. You didn’t loathe them as they 
should have been loathed ; you did not hate them as I 
did — all of them!” 

“As you did!” and his tone was incredulous. 

“Yes, as I — even I, who forgot myself for them, 
hated and despised them all. How many of them are 
better than that Snippington whom you all shudder at 
now? Does a profession change the very instincts of 
a man? The reason I came so to look up to you as 
some one far beyond every one else was because I 
knew that you were not gross. I believed that you 
stood above all of that, even in your thoughts, and 
nobody knows how I worshipped you for it. But it 
seems different to me now. I find that you thought 
that your life among these impure men, and among 
the women who knew their impurity, but smilingly 
passed it over, and fought for attentions from them, 

418 


THREE BECOME TWO 


was the most perfect that could be lived. Your 
life and the lives of all these people are unnat- 
ural, distorted, grotesque. Your only real pleasure 
in the midst of apparent continual delights is the 
fact that the rest of the world envies you and your 
kind. The crumbs from your feasts which they gather 
up on their way behind you do not show them the real 
sickening nature of the food. You live upon honey; 
they have it only for dessert. Your lives are time- 
less, seasonless. You are continually wishing for 
something new, and you labor under the delu- 
sion that novelty means only the old things turned 
upside down. How ridiculous that is! You shun the 
sun, and do most of your living in the glare of arti- 
ficial lights. Your wit is the ridiculing of everything 
that should be held in reverence. Good breeding is 
the avoiding of truth, honesty, openness. To be con- 
tinually weary — ‘blas£, ’ you call it — is the aim of 
existence. To pamper every desire or whim, to pour 
out money like the wine you waste, upon useless, silly 
things, is what is expected from every person, rich or 
dishonest, who has managed to enter into the 
charmed circle. Affectation is the very essence of 
their being, rivalry and jealousy their flesh and blood, 
hypocrisy their wardrobe. And you, Herbert Stag- 
mar, you to whom was given a great intellect, you 
regard this as something to be coveted ! This worship 
of things as a vision, a flower that has died in your 
hands! Oh, Herbert, it isn’t that! It’s more like 
the ravings of a drunkard, who has long since ceased 
to perceive the difference between a healthy, common 
view of life and the distorted vagaries of his delirium !” 


4 X 9 


A SOCIAL LION 


Helen paused rather suddenly, and looked at him 
with something like apprehension. She had gone 
farther than she meant to do. Her husband had 
listened to her long and impassioned speech intently, 
never removing his eyes from her transformed face. 
“Helen,” he said at last, “it is strange that I should 
never have done you justice. When was it that you 
learned so much so well?” 

“I am a woman,” she said, sighing a little, yet 
with relief in her face. “And while you were dream- 
ing through your happiness I was passing through my 
time of greatest suffering.” 

He came forward to her with his hands out- 
stretched. “My wife,” he said, “it is really you, not 
I, who should have been called Herbert Stagmar. A 
great life has been lost to the world in you. I am 
truly astounded. You must have thought through a 
great many hours during your dancing days, my 
dear.” 

She smiled back at him, but her eyes were moist. 
“Ah, Herbert, I had an early intercourse with one 
who knew, remember. That was worth all the world 
to me. I think sometimes that you were greater then 
in your enthusiasm and your poverty than now.” 

“And I, Helen,” he answered very sadly, “I do 
not think — I know that it is so.” 

“Dinner is served, sir,” came the maid’s voice at 
the door. 

“Oh!” cried Helen, “I should not have stayed so 
long! I am disreputable!” 

“No more so than I am,” he answered, laughing. 
“Come, let us go. We can ask Joan’s pardon.” 

420 


THREE BECOME TWO 


It was a light-hearted meal. Even Joan Howard, 
through the veil of her new and secret happiness, 
could see that the relations between her father and 
mother were far warmer than they had been hereto- 
fore. Stagmar’s spirits rose as his eyes met those 
of his wife over the steaming bouillon cups. It was 
a pleasantly lonely evening. 

Then next day dawned and wearily spun out its 
hours. To Joan the time was interminable. With 
the greatest thought and care she prepared her- 
self for her midnight flight. There would be nothing 
difficult about it. All that she could attempt to take 
was a small satchel with her necessaries in it, and 
besides this the chamois bag which held her jewels 
and what money she possessed. By ten in the morn- 
ing these details were finished, and the rest of the day 
was all to be idle. By the afternoon mail came a 
short note from Courtenay, repeating to her every 
part of the plan, and bidding her be faithful. This 
was all. And now, with the dying of the April day 
and the fast approach of night, Joan Stagmar’s heart 
beat tumultuously. At nine o’clock she went to her 
room, and there rapidly redressed herself from head to 
foot. She wore a spring suit of grayish blue, and a 
small straw hat, for the days were already warm. By 
ten she was quite ready, and there were still two endless 
hours to wait. But Joan’s heart and mind were very 
full, and she sat quite motionless by her window, now 
and again murmuring something like a prayer, and 
thinking, a little timidly, of the great new life that 
was stretching out before her. So, when finally her 
time was up, and the clock of the church in the 
421 


A SOCIAL LION 


square beyond was finally striking its heavy chimes, 
it came as a little shock to her. She stood bravely 
up, however, grasping her bag in one hand. Never 
before had those carved oaken stairs seemed to her so 
numerous, never had they creaked so persistently with 
each careful step. A wave of terror swept over her 
with the thought that very possibly her father might 
be in his study. In the hallway she stopped short, 
scarcely breathing. It must be half-past twelve, she 
thought to herself in an agony. Would Courtenay 
wait for her? Now she stood shakingly before the 
great doors, the last barriers between herself and 
the unsoftened world. For one instant she looked 
back at the black space behind her which had seen so 
much of the joy and fear of her life, and then, being 
young and restive, she turned without a tremor of 
prophetic vision toward her love. There was scarce 
a thought for the father and the mother she left in the 
rooms above. It was afterward that she thought of 
them. Now two turns of the slender wrist, a faint 
noise as the doors closed behind her, and with a low 
cry she ran into the waiting arms of Robert Cour- 
tenay. 

At the curb stood a brougham with a coachman, 
curious and impassive, upon the box. Hurriedly they 
entered the carriage and sped away through the dusky 
streets. 

“Where do we go first?” 

“To St. Matthew’s church.” 

“Bob! Bob! How good you are! That was what 
I had so wished for — to be married in a church! Who 
is to do it?” 


422 


THREE BECOME TWO 


“We are to be well married, dear. The bishop 
himself. ” 

“Bishop Cleering! How did you manage it?” 

“He is an old friend.” 

Joan did not answer, but only sighed in perfect 
content as Robert Courtenay lifted one of her hands 
to his lips in the darkness. 

St. Matthew’s was not far from the Stagmars’ 
house. To Joan, who was beginning to be nervously 
afraid of pursuit, it seemed that her father must be 
almost within speaking distance when they alighted at 
the structure whose lofty black steeples rose tower- 
ingly against the velvet midnight sky. The church 
door opened with a clang under Courtenay’s hands. 
Within, far down at the chancel, glimmered half a 
dozen puny lights. Joan was trembling now, and 
Robert supported her as they went together down the 
! aisle. Their wedding march sounded only within their 
| hearts. 

Up before the faintly lighted altar stood the old 
bishop in his robes, and with him two assistants 
who were afterward to act as witnesses to the mar- 
riage. 

“Robert, I wish I had a veil,” whispered Joan, 
gently dropping Courtenay’s arm. 

“The night is thy veil, beloved,” he answered 
softly. 

In the darkness she smiled. 

They stood together before the consecrated of 
God, from whose lips fell the words of the shortened 
marriage ceremony. Joan was self-possessed now, 
and her response, “I will,” was given with such calm 
4 2 3 


A SOCIAL LION 


earnestness that the bishop was well satisfied, and 
Courtenay’s deep eyes were bent upon her in approval. 

“Let us pray. ’’ 

There upon the carpeted pavement which had so 
short a time ago, been swept by the satin skirts and 
train of Edith Van Alyn, Joan Howard Stagmar’s 
knees were also pressed, and the same accents of 
that same old, old prayer, hallowed throughout 
nearly twenty centuries of reverent use, fell upon her 
fervent ears. The second prayer followed, the ad- 
dress to the assembled people omitted; the benedic- 
tion was pronounced. Like one in a dream Joan rose 
up, and dimly perceived that the bishop was shaking 
her hand. Then a book, wherein was written a record 
of the marriage, was produced. 

“Will you be so good as to sign your name, Mrs. 
Courtenay,’’ and Robert was holding a pen out to her. 
Now the first great joy of her wedding came to her 
with, her new name. Courtenay’s strong signature 
came after hers, and then those of the witnesses. So 
were they joined together, these two, after a strange 
courtship; bound by a tie of fierce love which was not 
easily to die. Up the aisle and out again into the 
night they passed, man and wife. A moment later 
and the brougham had driven rapidly away. 

“And now, Robert, where?” asked the bride, gently. 

“To your valley of San Gabriel, our paradise, my 
wife.” And so these two well-known friends pass 
out of our story forever. 

Neither Herbert Stagmar nor his wife was particu- 
larly surprised next morning when Joan failed to 

424 


THREE BECOME TWO 


appear at breakfast time. She was not often late, 
but she was not infallible, and no one was sent to her 
room to rouse her earlier than necessary into the 
dreariness of the waking world. His first morning 
mail was brought to Stagmar at the table, since he 
was waiting impatiently for an important message 
from a publisher. His letter had not come yet, but 
over his coffee he broke open two or three missives. 
From habit, not curiosity, Helen watched him closely. 
On the last note that he opened she recognized the 
seal, and quivered a little, as she always did at a 
memory. The seal was Courtenay’s. Stagmar had 
not read two lines when the color suddenly left his 
lips. 

“What is it, Herbert?” asked the dancer, leaning 
over the table in sudden apprehension. Stagmar rose 
hastily. 

“Go to the study and wait there for me, Helen. 
I will be with you in one moment.” 

With fierce haste he disappeared from the dining- 
room and ran up the great staircase to his daughter’s 
room. A short search among her effects was enough. 
Helen was pacing the library when he entered it. 
Her face was frightened. 

“What is it? Tell me! tell me — ” ' 

Silently he handed her Courtenay’s letter, and 
seated himself quietly while she read it. It did not 
take her long. At her low sob he smiled sadly. 

“Well, she has gone, Helen, my dear. It was 
a strange chance that was given her, and that she 
took. But her life is her own. She is of age. I will 
make sure that the marriage was perfectly legal, 
4 2 5 


A SOCIAL LION 


though of that I have not much doubt. Courtenay 
loved her, and he is no cad. As for us, we are left 
alone again — you and I — and that — is all — there is to 
say.” 

“But — but — oh, Herbert! Courtenay — of all!” 
The woman’s face was buried in her hands. Stagmar 
understood her without more words on her part. 
Without looking at her he held out his strong hand. 
She grasped it, and knelt beside him. 

“Why think of that, Helen? It is an ordinary 
thing. Now it is past, and regrets for the past are 
useless. Why should we little mortals spend our 
lives in remorse? We have not too long to live. At 
the end of our three-score years our light flashes out, 
and we enter the blankness of the beyond.” 

“Do you believe that?” she asked, in a low voice. 

“It is most comforting to me,” he answered, and 
they were both silent for a little, till Helen rose. 

“Come, then, Herbert, let us go away. In some 
other land there may be happiness for us. Let us 
try, at any rate. Ah! How terrible this city is to 
me!” 

He faced her. “Yes, Helen, we will go to join 
that scattered nation into which we were born. The 
place I usurped in another land for a little has rightly 
gone from me. Across the seas, then, forever — into 
the Bohemia which is ours by right of birth, will, deed, 
solitude, and lack of law!” 

“But,” answered his wife, lifting her eyes to his, 
bravely, “to our child we have left a better place. 
We have become something better than descendants. 
We are ancestors.” 


426 


EPILOGUE 


THE PASSING OF ONE 

It was late in the afternoon of a November day, 
and the lifeless streets of a great city were rapidly 
darkening. Within the heart of the city lay a certain 
small square, in the center of which clustered many 
shrubs and small trees, whose bare branches shone 
wet and glistening with slow, cold rain in the misty 
light of an electric globe on the corner. About the 
heavy stone buildings the wind rushed with a moaning 
swish. The street was empty of life. 

Within one of the houses on this square, in a large 
and gloomy room, heavily furnished, stood a bed of 
ancient carven oak, canopied and curtained in crim- 
son. Here, raised high upon pillows and lightly cov- 
ered over with linen sheets and spread, lay the figure 
of an old man. The white face, framed in whiter 
hair, was strongly molded, and imperious even in 
weakness of body. The mouth was haughty, the 
) nostrils sensitive, the forehead broad — as of old; for 
( this was Herbert Stagmar, and Herbert Stagmar was 
dying in the distant city of Berlin. 

( The darkened room was now lighted only by the 
, faint glimmering of two waxen candles which burned 
upon a small altar standing in a corner. The man 
upon the bed was alone, and his eyes were closed. 

427 


A SOCIAL LION 


Presently the portieres that hid the door were 
pushed aside, and a woman, clad in trailing garments 
of black, entered and crossed immediately to the bed- 
side. There she lingered, gazing mournfully over the 
face and figure of him from whom she had not now 
been separated for twenty years. As one of her 
slender hands, timeworn but very white, rested lightly 
upon his, which lay at his side, the pallid lips of Her- 
bert Stagmar moved a little, a breath floated from his 
mouth, and the woman caught the tenderly spoken 
name, “Helen.” 

Down upon her knees by his side she sank, her 
hand tightly clasping his. 

“Herbert, oh, Herbert!” and the tone was one of 
pleading which was almost agonized, “Herbert, once 
more, will you not let me send for a priest? A Prot- 
estant minister — even a Bible, a prayer — let me read 
to you only a word, dear — I cannot bear to think — ” 

For one brief moment the man’s eyes closed 
again, and the lines about his brows deepened. 
“No,” he said, faintly and decisively. “For the last 
time, I repeat that I acknowledge nothing — nay, I 
deny — I deny — all. ” 

Helen Stagmar, with an unstifled sob, rose to her 
feet and crossed slowly to the prie-dieu. The silence 
that reigned now in the room for a quarter of an hour 
was disturbed only by the faint clicking of rosary 
beads as they slipped through the fingers of the 
woman. But Herbert Stagmar heeded them not. 

Indeed, he did not even hear them, for all his 
remaining life was now concentrated into a final agony 
of thought. How is it for one thus imperious in spirit 
428 


THE PASSING OF ONE 


to die? How is it for anyone to die? Oh! When 
we come to the actual moment of it, it is a thing too 
awful to be realized, no matter how little we have 
dreaded it in healthy life. Now Herbert Stagmar was 
alone, face to face with the still veiled Hereafter. In 
life he had always said that he was but an atom of the 
universe, doomed some day to an eternal death. Now 
it seemed to him that nothing mortal could be so filled 
with the horror of silence, the vehemence of sup- 
pressed longing. Why should one suddenly be, in the 
world, only after sixty short years to sink once more 
into nothingness and the tomb? Feebly the dying 
man unclenched one hand. 

He who holds belief of life and mercy hereafter, who 
is, in his heart, sure of the best, who never, living, has 
dreaded dying — even he, standing at the end of the 
path which is not to be retraveled, looks into the 
unbroken blackness ahead with a shudder, and turns 
to stretch out his arms hopelessly to that light 
behind. Such a one might be willing, glad to go 
through all the miseries and unhappiness of earth life 
again, when he finds the old sight departing from the 
old eyes, feels the clasp of the warm brother-hand in 
his grow gradually less perceptible, knows that his 
time to pass away from all those hearts hot with grief 
of parting is come. He knows that that going is for- 
ever, that ages shall pass and his body be dust, yet 
he be living still — how, where? Oh, the terror of 
that question! The awe of utter loneliness, the soli- 
tude of the departure! Herbert Stagmar, bitter with 
years of unbelief, thought of these things, and grimly 
closed his eyes. He was going to nothingness, to 
4 2 9 


A SOCIAL LION 


hopeless oblivion. A strange old man, gentle only 
with one, cherishing two memories. Both lay far 
back now in his life, and yet his youth and middle 
age, spent among his people in his own land, were far 
nearer to his heart than the long twenty years of exile 
that had followed them. Twenty years! Gray 
years! He and Helen were old. Ay, it was time 
that he should go. The brilliant fire of his fame had 
long ago died down. The last five years had seen it 
become only a bed of embers, which, to be sure, still 
held within it the spark of future glory, but was now 
overtopped by a dozen upstart little flames which the 
father fire itself had erstwhile kindled. 

Future glory! What was that to the dying one? 
The voice of his brain was whispering weakly; his 
eyes grew dim; he lay alone, save for one faithful 
companion. He was forgotten. Herbert Stagmar 
was forgotten! For the last time on earth the sun 
had set for him, and to-morrow who would there be 
to speak his name in regret? Who was left of all 
those old companions? Where were they? Black- 
ness and oblivion! 

Ever that recurring thought. Why should it go? 
The worn frame was shaken with anguish. Oblivion, 
dust, nothingness. Life should cease. His brief 
moment of strength and reason was gone. Already 
just before him lay the eternal night. His mind — was 
it not already going? Nay only overburdened with 
the fearful weight of his unbelief. As a test he sent 
his memory back down the road of past time. In- 
voluntarily he beheld his whole life pass before him 
in a series of vivid mental pictures. He lived again 
43o 


THE PASSING OF ONE 


through that short winter when he had known so 
strangely the daughter who had never again come 
into his life; through all the distant struggle of his 
curious love for the child of Jim Kent; the bitterness 
of his disgrace; Joan’s marriage and flight with Cour- 
tenay; his own farewell to his city, and the depart- 
ure with his wife; then the long years since, lived 
among other races; shunned always by his own peo- 
ple; eagerly accepted at first by foreigners of all 
classes; then hated by many of them for his denoun- 
cing of their ways, their tradition, and their stagnation, 
social and moral, set forth in, perhaps, the most pow- 
erful of his works; his life for many months among 
those Bohemians of his earlier years; then again, for 
a time, raised to high consequence by royalty itself, 
only to be dropped and forgotten upon the death of 
William; plunged into solitude and despair by the 
knowledge of his failing strength and advanced age 
at last. Forgotten! Forgotten! Forgotten! Those 
dreary syllables, pulsated by the hours, were pushing 
out his life. One slight sound, a low moan, passed 
his lips, but when his wife reached the bedside he was 
faintly smiling. 

“Helen,” he murmured, “here is Bob. Why don’t 
you speak to him?” 

“Ah, you are dreaming, Herbert!” sobbed the 
woman. But he did not hear. 

“All here. Joan, and Bob, and Helen, my three. 
I am content now that I have seen you all again. I 
am old — you see. And there is Jim, Bob, — and Hor- 
ace — they are well?” 

“You are dreaming! Say that you are dreaming! 

43 1 




A SOCIAL LION 


They are not here, dearest!” cried Helen, terrified 
now by a knowledge that she refused to admit to her- 
self. 

But Herbert Stagmar was beyond earth-voices. 
The hand was still his, but its touch was gone. The 
vision before his eyes was blue, and black, and glori- 
ous. His heart pounded furiously against the side of 
its prison-house. The noise of many waters filled his 
ears. About him the skies were rent and the stars 
blazed. A blinding phantasm from on high appeared 
to him through the torn clouds. He was still. Helen, 
below him, still watched the breath struggle through 
his lips. 

Now, widely his eyes opened. He saw nothing 
through them. They closed again. In his bed, with 
supreme effort, he sat up, high and straight. His 
hands were uplifted. He gasped convulsively, and 
then three words just passed his lips. 

“Credo in Deum!” 

The flesh fell heavily back. Herbert Stagmar had 
gone on, out, and up. Helen’s straining eyes saw the 
pale shadow as it passed over the bed. No sound 
escaped her lips. She knew that a soul had beheld its 
Creator. 

“A great life has passed into the tomb, and there 
awaits the requiem of winter’s snows.” 

®S9 


432 



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